Gabriel nodded, though by his expression he made it clear he wished to discuss the matter no further.

“So what brings the two of you to Argentina this time?” Ramirez asked.

“We were doing a bit of wine tasting in Mendoza.”

“Find anything to your liking?”

“The Bodega de la Mariposa Reserva.”

“The ’05 or the ’06?”

“The ’05, actually.”

“I’ve had it myself. In fact, I’ve had the opportunity to speak with the owner of that vineyard on a number of occasions.”

“Like him?”

“I do,” Ramirez said.

“Trust him?”

“As much as I trust anyone. And before we go any further, perhaps we should establish the ground rules for this conversation.”

“The same as last time. You help me now, I help you later.”

“What exactly are you looking for?”

“Information about an Argentine diplomat who died in Zurich in 1967.”

“I assume you’re referring to Carlos Weber?” Ramirez smiled. “And given your recent trip to Mendoza, I also assume that you’re searching for the missing fortune of one SS-Hauptsturmführer Kurt Voss.”

“Does it exist, Alfonso?”

“Of course it exists. It was deposited in Bank Landesmann in Zurich between 1938 and 1945. Carlos Weber died trying to bring it to Argentina in 1967. And I have the documents to prove it.”

CHAPTER 35

35

BUENOS AIRES

There was just one problem. Alfonso Ramirez had no idea where he had hidden the documents. And so for the next half hour, as he shuffled from room to room, lifting dusty covers and frowning at stacks of faded paper, he recited the details of Carlos Weber’s disgraceful curriculum vitae. Educated in Spain and Germany, Weber was an ultranationalist who served as a foreign policy adviser to the parade of military officers and feeble politicians who had ruled Argentina in the decade before the Second World War. Profoundly anti-Semitic and antidemocratic, he tilted naturally toward the Third Reich and forged close ties to many senior SS officers—ties that left Weber uniquely positioned to help Nazi war criminals find sanctuary.

“He was one of the linchpins of the entire shitty deal. He was close to Perón, close to the Vatican, and close to the SS. Weber didn’t help the Nazi murderers come here merely out of the goodness of his heart. He actually believed they could help build the Argentina of his dreams.”

Ramirez yanked open the top drawer of a battered metal file cabinet and fingered his way quickly through the tabs of several dozen manila folders.

“Is there any chance his death was an accident?” asked Gabriel.

“None,” Ramirez replied emphatically. “Carlos Weber was known to be an excellent athlete and a strong swimmer. There’s no way he slipped into the lake and drowned.”

Ramirez rammed the file drawer closed and opened the next. A moment later, he smiled and triumphantly withdrew a folder. “Ah, here’s the one I was looking for.”

“What is it?”