After the thunderous applause which had greeted his speech had died down, Peron and Eva took their leave, his wife again being virtually carried by her ladies-in-waiting. The two women attending her were skilful and almost made it look as if Eva were making her own way, but Sybilla could see that that wasn’t the case.
The reception room to which they returned now had the furniture cleared apart from chairs arranged around the outside. On a stage at the end of the hall, a small orchestra was tuning up. Guests were encouraged to take to the floor, but Sybilla, knowing her limitations, sat it out. She was amused as she watched couples attempting the tango. Some of the Argentinians, it has to be said, were actually quite good. The German couples, on the other hand, tended to look like fish out of water. Herwig, however, acquitted himself quite well with the wife of a rather portly diplomat who clearly had no intention of taking to the floor. Peron made a brief appearance, but of Eva, they saw no more that night.
Later, they sat together on the patio of Weber’s villa for some time, neither speaking, both deep in their own thoughts.
At length, Weber broke the silence. “Thank you for being my partner tonight. You turned what could have been a thoroughly boring affair into a pleasurable evening.”
“I enjoyed it—seemed a bit rushed—but it was … interesting meeting the president and his wife.” She paused for a moment before adding, “She’s terribly ill, isn’t she, Herwig?”
“I’m afraid so. It’s an open secret. The palace tries to keep the lid on it, but anyone who meets her can read the signs. Best guess is that it’s some form of cancer,” Weber confirmed.
“Tragic,” said Sybilla, “I’ll bet she was really beautiful before the illness struck?”
“They had been in office only a year when I arrived here, and at that time she was quite stunning.”
Changing the subject, Weber asked, “Are you looking forward to your new life in Bariloche?”
“I’m a bit apprehensive, but it’s a good opportunity. Have you ever been there?” asked Sybilla.
“I travel down three or four times a year. This time of year, autumn, it’s excellent for skiing. Do you ski?” he asked.
“Herwig, is the Pope a Catholic? I’m Norwegian, of course I ski!”
They both laughed.
“How do you get down there?” asked Sybilla. “Do you borrow the president’s plane as well?”
“No, I’m not that exalted!” chuckled Weber. “But what’s the point of being an aeronautics exec if you can’t hitch a lift on a plane now and then?”
“What about money?” Weber was serious now. “I could let you have something to get you on your feet.”
“No, Herwig,” said Sybilla, rising to her feet and stretching, “you’ve done more than enough. How can I ever repay your kindness? Priebke has offered me an advance to get me started, and I still have some of the money I came with. I’ll manage. I’m turning in now, thank you for everything.” She bent forward and kissed his forehead.
Without looking at her, Weber said softly, “I shall miss you here, Billa, the villa will seem empty.”
“Perhaps we’ll see each other when you visit?” she suggested.
Weber smiled up at her and nodded. “You can rely on that; I’ll be counting the days until I see you again.”
Sybilla went to bed that night feeling unaccountably happy.
The plane was a Douglas DC-3 derivative, the inside of which had been custom designed to provide the ultimate in flying comfort. The seats, only twelve in total, were spacious and well upholstered and could recline fully without interfering with the seat behind. In addition, there was a lounge seating area which incorporated a bar. A stewardess buzzed around being very attentive to their every need.
The aircraft actually belonged to Aerolineas Argentinas but was on permanent charter to the president, who not only used it himself to get around his vast country, but also employed it to shuttle VIPs from place to place. One such VIP appeared to be Doctor Ronald Richter.
As the plane soared upwards, Sybilla was able to see the extent of the sprawling metropolis that was Buenos Aires. Then the estuary of the River Plate, staggering, immense, breath-taking. A full two hundred kilometres from bank to bank at its widest point. She caught a fleeting glimpse of the northern end of the estuary where the Rivers Uruguay and Parana, emerging from the forests to the north and north-west, emptied their muddy waters into the River Plate. The River Plate was no estuary, it was a place where Njord, the Norse God of the Sea, had taken a bite out of the land that separates Uruguay and Argentina and allowed his friend the Atlantic to claim it.
The plane banked, and the vision was gone. As they climbed higher, they could see the vast pampas stretching away before them, but by the time they reached cruising altitude, details on the ground became indistinct and they were flying over a speckled carpet of green and brown.
Sybilla moved to the lounge area where she sat for a while with Erich Priebke.
“You’ll need a week to settle in,” he ventured. “Tomorrow is Monday. Don’t come in at all—settle into your hotel and get to know your way around Bariloche. Come in on Tuesday and meet the rest of the staff and the children, then use the rest of the week to prepare your lessons.”
It is, thought Sybilla, a most considerate gesture, and she expressed the gratitude to him that she felt. After a little small talk, Priebke moved away and Sybilla shifted around a few seats so she was next to Tiny.
“Instructions received and understood?” he asked with a smirk.
Sybilla laughed. “Yes, sir!”
