“Has he indeed! In that case, why don’t I act as guide and mentor?”
“Would you be able to do that? What about Richter and the island?”
“Yes. I’ll have to hold his hand on the boat over to Huemul, but once I’ve wiped his nose, combed his hair and sat him down at his desk, he can then be safely left on his own for a little while. I’ll also need to wake up my elite guards, help them put their boots on the correct feet and remind them which end of the rifle the bullets come out, after which I’ll be able to return to the mainland. What say early lunch and a seven-and-a-half-minute tour of the highlights of Bariloche?”
Sybilla, shaking her head and still laughing, said, “Oh, Tiny, you are a card. That would be lovely if you’re sure you can afford the time.”
“Well, someone has to look after you. Normally I wouldn’t bother, but when I heard you were Norwegian, well …” Tiny shook his head with mock severity, a look of concern creasing his rugged features, simultaneously drawing in a long noisy breath.
Sybilla punched him on the shoulder and immediately regretted it. It was like hitting marble.
They chatted together amicably. Unlike Weber, Tiny assumed Sybilla could ski and told her he knew some excellent slopes. They made a date to ski together at the first opportunity. She found Tiny easy to talk to—at once humorous and knowledgeable—and found herself telling him all about her childhood in the fishing village of Grense, but omitted any reference to the Nazi invaders. Straying into that territory would only lead to complications and potential danger.
An announcement on the intercom advised them they were approaching Bariloche and asked them to return to their seats. Once settled, Sybilla looked out the window and was horrified to see how close the mountains were all around. She silently thanked Thor for giving them clear weather. To have had to descend in foul weather into the little bowl in which Bariloche nestled would have been quite terrifying.
Bariloche airport was very much a work in progress, still a rough sketch on a draughtsman’s board. All that existed at the current time was a concrete runway with a turning area to the side and a wooden building. Being an internal flight, landing formalities were unnecessary and, having collected their luggage, Tiny directed them to a parked car. None of the doors on the vehicle were locked, and Tiny helped everyone stow their luggage before climbing into the driver’s seat. He fished under the dash for a moment and produced a set of keys.
“Alright,” he said, starting the engine, “Herr Doctor first, then Herr Priebke and then Frau Meyer.” Slipping the car into gear, he moved off.
The doctor’s residence turned out to be a rather plush two-storey house on the outskirts of town, while Priebke’s abode was much humbler and situated in the centre. Tiny dropped Sybilla off at a nice-looking hotel a few streets further on.
As he helped her out with her luggage he said, “I’ve booked your room, everything is ready for you. I’ll see you tomorrow, eleven okay?” She waved to him as he drove away.
That night Sybilla lay in her bed in her very comfortable hotel and tried to enumerate how she was going to get out of this mess. She didn’t need many fingers to count the options—they were very few. Could she feign illness and ask to return to Buenos Aires? No, that was nonsensical, they would simply refer her to a doctor here in Bariloche.
Tell them she had decided to give herself up to the American authorities? No, they definitely wouldn’t allow her to do that! She had met the Nazi elite in Buenos Aires and had actually used the Kameradenwerk network. If she tried to pull that one, she had a fairly good idea what her fate would be.
Escape over the mountains to Chile? She would have to be desperate to try that without a guide. In the extremely unlikely event that she didn’t perish on the mountains and did make it to Chile, what could she hope for? Certainly, the Chilean government led by Gabriel Gonzalez Videla was pro-US, but the chances of making contact that high up the political ladder were remote. She would probably be dealt with by local officials who might very well return her to Argentina as an illegal immigrant. Not good!
To make matters worse, there had been no contact with the CIA agent. With a sigh, she turned onto her side. I am effectively a prisoner here!
Bariloche
Promptly at 11 a.m. Tiny turned up at the hotel to find Sybilla waiting for him in the foyer. They ambled a short distance to a café and, at Sybilla’s suggestion, Tiny ordered lunch for them both. Grilled fish freshly caught in the lake. After lunch, Tiny took her on his promised ‘seven-and-a-half-minute’ tour of Bariloche. In fact, it took quite a bit longer than that. Apart from being bigger than Sybilla had expected, she was captivated by the small town with its many Tyrolean style buildings, timber built with towering, steeply sloping roofs. Almost every window above ground-floor level boasted a window box, which must have provided a breathtaking display at the height of summer—less so now at this time of year, but still colourful and attractive. Sybilla particularly enjoyed window-shopping in the souvenir and gift shops, which, Tiny told her, were beginning to spring up everywhere as the town’s popularity as a tourist destination increased.
Most of the shops were selling cheap, mass-produced trinkets at inflated prices, and some advertised ‘genuine’ Inca artefacts, which invariably proved to be poor imitations. Tiny quipped that if she asked for a map to the legendary city of El Dorado, the shopkeeper would look furtively around before producing one from under the counter for a mere fifty dollars, at
