A Death in Vienna

another for her superior.”
    “And Otto Krebs, if he’s still in Argentina and still alive, might very well have been told we were looking for him.”
    “Exactly.”
    Gabriel held up the card. “Where was it?”
    “Nineteen forty-nine. I suppose Chela stuck one in the wrong box.”
    Gabriel looked down and began to read. Otto Krebs arrived in Buenos Aires in December 1963 on a boat bound from Athens. Ramirez pointed to a number written in hand at the bottom: 245276/62.
    “That’s the number of his landing permit. It was probably issued by the Argentine consulate in Damascus. The ‘sixty-two’ at the end of the line is the year the permit was granted.”
    “Now what?”
    “We know he arrived in Argentina.” Ramirez shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Let’s see if we can find him.”
    THEY DROVE BACKto San Telmo through the wet streets and parked outside an Italianate apartment house. Like many buildings in Buenos Aires, it had been beautiful once. Now its façade was the color of Ramirez’s car and streaked by pollution.
    They climbed a flight of dimly lit stairs. The air inside the flat was stale and warm. Ramirez locked the door behind them and threw open the windows to the cool evening. Gabriel looked into the street and saw Chiara parked on the opposite side.
    Ramirez ducked into the kitchen and came out holding two bottles of Argentine beer. He handed one to Gabriel. The glass was already sweating. Gabriel drank half of it. The alcohol took the edge off his headache.
    Ramirez led him into his office. It was what Gabriel expected—big and shabby, like Ramirez himself, with books piled in the chairs and a large desk buried beneath a stack of papers that looked as though it was waiting for the match. Heavy curtains shut out the noise and the light of the street. Ramirez went to work on the telephone while Gabriel sat down and finished the last of his beer.
    It took Ramirez an hour to come up with his first clue. In 1964, Otto Krebs had registered with the National Police in Bariloche in northern Patagonia. Forty-five minutes later, another piece of the puzzle: In 1972, on an application for an Argentine passport, Krebs had listed his address as Puerto Blest, a town not far from Bariloche. It took only fifteen minutes to find the next piece of information. In 1982, the passport was rescinded.
    “Why?” Gabriel asked.
    “Because the holder of the passport died.”
    THE ARGENTINE SPREADa dog-eared roadmap over a table and, squinting through his smudged reading glasses, searched the western reaches of the country.
    “Here it is,” he said, jabbing at the map. “San Carlos de Bariloche, or just Bariloche for short. A resort in the northern lake district of Patagonia, founded by Swiss and German settlers in the nineteenth century. It’s still known as the Switzerland of Argentina. Now it’s a party town for the ski crowd, but for the Nazis and their fellow travelers, it was something of a Valhalla. Mengele adored Bariloche.”
    “How do I get there?”
    “The quickest way is to fly. There’s an airport and hourly service from Buenos Aires.” He paused, then added, “It’s a long way to go to see a grave.”
    “I want to see it with my own eyes.”
    Ramirez nodded. “Stay at the Hotel Edelweiss.”
    “The Edelweiss?”
    “It’s a German enclave,” Ramirez said. “You’ll find it hard to believe you’re in Argentina.”
    “Why don’t you come along for the ride?”
    “I’m afraid I’d be something of a hindrance. I’mpersona non grata among certain segments of the Bariloche community. I’ve spent a little too much time poking around there, if you know what I mean. My face is too well known.”
    The Argentine’s demeanor turned suddenly serious.
    “You should watch your back, too, Monsieur Duran. Bariloche is not a place to make careless inquiries. They don’t like outsiders asking questions about certain residents. You should also know that you’ve come to Argentina at a tense time.”
    Ramirez rummaged through the pile of paper on his desk until he found what he was looking for, a two-month-old copy of the international edition ofNewsweek magazine. He handed it to Gabriel and said, “My story is on page thirty-six.” Then he went into the kitchen to fetch two more beers.
    THE FIRST TOdie was a man named Enrique Calderon. He was found in the bedroom of his townhouse in the Palermo Chico section of Buenos Aires. Four shots to the head, very professional. Gabriel, who could