“Ricardo told you all this?”

“He can get quite talkative when he’s had a few,” said Geller. “Yesterday evening, we were coming out of Capri’s technical branch office in Cadillal when we saw a big white American car driven by Skorzeny. Ricardo recognized Kammler immediately.”

“What did Kammler look like?”

“Thin, bony, hooked nose. Aged about fifty. Eagle-like, you might say. Had his wife and daughter with him. From Germany, I think. That’s one of the reasons Ricardo hates him. Because he’s got his wife and daughter with him. Although I rather think Ricardo’s jealous of anyone who got out of Germany with lots of money in his trouser pockets. That or anyone who’s made a better fist of life in Argentina than he has. You included.”

“Did Ricardo say why Skorzeny might be staying with Kammler?”

“Yes.”

Momentarily, Geller looked troubled. I offered him a cigarette. He took one, let me light it for him, and remained silent.

“Come on, Herbert,” I said, using his real name for once, and lighting one for myself.

Geller sighed. “This is top-secret stuff, Bernie. I mean even Ricardo looked a bit shifty when he told me.”

“Ricardo always looks shifty,” I said.

“Well, naturally he worries that his past will catch up with him. We all do. Even you, probably. But this isn’t past. This is now. Have you ever heard of Project Poplar?”

“Poplar? Like the tree?”

Geller nodded. “Apparently, Peron wants to build an atomic bomb. The scuttlebutt around Capri is that Kammler is the director of Peron’s nuclear-weapons program. Just like he was in Germany, at Riesengebirge and Ebensee. And that Skorzeny is his head of security.”

“You’d need a lot of money for something like that.” Even as I said it, I remembered that Peron already seemed to have access to hundreds of millions of dollars of Nazi money, and if Evita had her way, possibly billions more dollars in Switzerland. “You also need a lot of scientists,” I added. “Have you seen lots of scientists?”

“I don’t know. I don’t imagine they drive around wearing white coats and carrying slide rules, do you?”

“Good point.”

There was a map on the seat of the jeep, and a toolbox in the back. “Show me where Kammler’s ranch is,” I told Geller.

“Wiederhold?” Geller took the map and moved a finger southwest of Tucuman. “It’s here. Just a few miles north of the Dulce River. A few miles to the south and a little to the east, and the frosts make sugarcane impossible. Cane would be impossible in Tucuman, too, if it wasn’t for the Sierra del Aconquija.” He took a drag from his cigarette. “You’re not thinking of going there, are you?”

“No. I’m going here.” I pointed to one of the lagoons on the Dulce River. “Just north of Andalgala. To a place called Dulce.”

“Never heard of it,” said Geller. “There’s the Dulce River, but I’ve not heard of a town of that name.”

Geller’s map was more detailed than the one I’d bought in Buenos Aires. But he was right: there was nowhere called Dulce. Just a couple of anonymous lagoons. All the same, I didn’t think Melville would have dared to mislead me again. Not after the threats I had made against his miserable life.

“How accurate is this map?” I asked.

“Very. It’s based on an old muleteers’ map. Up until the beginning of the century, mules were the only way to get around this whole area. As many as sixty thousand mules a year used to get sold in Santa, north of here. Nobody knew these trails better than those old muleteers.”

“May I borrow this?”

“Sure,” he said. “Don’t tell me you’ve found your top bastard. This murderer you’ve been after.”

“Something like that. It’s best I don’t tell you any more, Herbert. Not right now.”

Geller shrugged. “Not knowing won’t make me itch.” He grinned. “While you’re borrowing my jeep, I’m off to see a rather attractive girl who works for the Institute of Anthropology, here in Tucuman. I’m planning to let her study me in considerable detail.”

I TRIED TO PERSUADE Anna to stay behind, at the hotel, but she wasn’t having it.

“I told you before, Gunther. I’m not the type who sits at home darning your socks. I didn’t get to be a lawyer without outsmarting a few dumb cops.”

“For a lawyer you don’t seem to have much in the way of caution.”

“I never said I was a good lawyer. But get this straight. I started this case and I intend to see it through.”

“You know something? For a lawyer, you’re a pretty nice girl. I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Do all Germans treat women like they’re made of porcelain? No wonder you lost the war. Come on. Let’s get in the car.”

Anna and I drove southwest out of the city. Soon we were on a narrow, pitted road that was bordered on both sides by the parted waves of a Red Sea of sugarcane. This was green on top, and an impenetrable wooden thicket below. There were miles of the stuff, almost as if imagination had failed the earth’s creator.

“Sugarcane. It’s just a lot of giant grass,” said Anna.

“Sure, but I’d hate to see the lawn mowers.”

From time to time I was obliged to slow down as we passed little walking thickets of cane that, on closer inspection, revealed themselves to be loads on the backs of mules, which elicited cries of pity from Anna. Every few miles we came across a shantytown of concrete-block houses with corrugated iron roofs. Half-naked children chewing lengths of sugarcane like dogs gnawing bones observed our arrival and departure from their villas miseria with wild, gesticulating enthusiasm. From the metropolitan comfort of Buenos Aires, Argentina had looked like an affluent country; but out here, on the plantations of the humid pampa, the eighth-largest country in the world seemed one of the poorest.

Several miles farther on, the sugarcane receded and we came to some fields of corn that led down to the River Dulce and a wooden bridge that wasn’t much more than a continuation of the dirt road. On the other side, I pulled over and took another look at the map. I had the Sierra rising in front of me, the river on my right, fields of maize on my left, and the road leading down a long incline immediately ahead of us.

“There’s nothing here,” said Anna. “Just a lot of sugar and a lot more sky.” She paused. “What exactly does this place look like, anyway?”

“I don’t know, exactly,” I said. “But I’ll know it when I see it.” I tossed the map onto her lap, shoved the jeep in gear, and drove on.

A few minutes later, we came to the ruins of a village. A village that didn’t appear on the map. Small, white, roofless shacks lined the road, and a derelict church was home to a number of stray dogs, but there was no sign of anyone living there.

“Where have all the people gone?”

“I suppose they were moved by the government. This whole area will be flooded when they dam the river.”

“I’m missing it already,” she said.

At the bottom of the street, a narrow alley led off to the right and, on a wall, we saw the faintest outline of an arrow and the words LAGUNA DULCE-Sweet Lagoon. We turned down the alley, which became a dirt track leading into a narrow valley. A thick canopy of trees covered the track, and I switched on the headlights until we were in sunlight again.

“I’d hate to run out of gas here,” observed Anna as we bounced from one pothole to another. “The middle of nowhere has its depressing moments.”

“Anytime you want to go back, just say the word.”

“And miss what’s just around the next corner? I don’t think so.”

At last, we came to a clearing and a kind of crossroads.

“Which way now?” she asked.

I drove a little farther on before reversing to the crossroads and choosing another direction. A moment or two later, I saw it.

“This is the right way,” I said.

“How do you know?”

I slowed down. In the bushes by the side of the track was an empty wooden roll labeled GLASGOW WIRE. I pointed to it. “This is where the Scotsman delivered his wire.”