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Brazil. The large American figured this courier was delivering the same cargo as the last three: new identity papers forged through the offices of the SS and Gestapo. If not that, then it was probably the hard currency of the Allies, so the escaping war criminals could live the life of luxury and power they had grown accustomed to since 1933. He suspected the latter, thanks again to his female informant, who had overheard the plans from one of the SS operatives in the city.
    The American stood six foot four inches and had the brown-colored skin of a man who had served long days in the extreme Southern Hemisphere. Since he had been transferred out of Germany two years before, he had successfully conducted operations for the OSS—the Office of Strategic Services—in six different countries with the assistance of his staff of ten men.
    The large man suddenly stopped and knelt low to the sandy ground. The natural cover was something he wasn’t comfortable with as he watched the barren area to his front. His backup had not arrived as scheduled and that made him apprehensive.
    He heard a noise behind him as a small bush hit the trunk of a tree. There was no wind to make it do so. He immediately turned and pointed both Colt .45s at the dark silhouette in front of him.
    “Don’t shoot me, Garrison,” said the female voice from the darkness.
    “Damn it, Isabel! What are you doing? Get the hell out of here!” Lee hissed.
    The woman he had known for two years, Isabel Perione, the very best OSS informant they had in the region, came forward cautiously. To Colonel Garrison Lee, she looked out of place in pants and shirt. Her usual attire was evening wear smuggled out of Paris by the OSS and used as payment to the Argentine spy.
    “I am sorry, Garrison. I had to come. Two of your men were taken right from the Club Dubois in the city.”
    “What do you mean by taken?” Lee asked as he watched Isabel’s eyes in the soft moonlight.
    “All I know is that your men were removed from the club and taken away. I know they were supposed to meet you here.”
    “Haney and Rafferty are too damn good to get snatched from a public place,” Lee said. His eyes never left the woman, nor did the guns he held waver.
    “Nonetheless, Colonel, your men will not be here for you.”
    Lee was about to respond when he heard voices. He realized whoever they were, they were speaking a heavily accented form of the castellano Spanish of the Argentine region.
    He risked moving two small branches of the bush they were hidden behind, using the barrel of one of his Colts, all the while keeping the other automatic pointed in the general direction of his informant. He knew beyond a doubt that the best thing to do would be to back away right then, call the operation a bust, and return to Buenos Aires to learn about the situation from his only two-man team in the region. However, he needed to see who he was dealing with.
    Lee counted six men. They were only ten yards away. Four of them were Argentines; the other two men were dressed in dark clothing and woolen hats, the sort used by men just coming in from the sea. The smaller of the two was holding a satchel and the taller, a very lethal-looking submachine gun. Automatic weapons weren’t the norm for anyone sneaking into Argentina. Lee looked at his .45 and shook his head, then half turned toward Isabel.
    “We have to let this one go, doll face. I’d say the better part of valor tonight is—”
    He heard the click of a hammer being drawn back and felt a gun being placed to his head.
    “I would hate to put a bullet hole into what I know is your favorite hat, Mr. Lee. So if you would, please release the hammers of both of your Colts as gently as possible. I am not the only one with a weapon on you.”
    “I must say,” Lee said, as he did what was ordered, “you were good, Isabel.” He finally turned and saw the Argentine woman with the pretty face and perfect body holding the gun, now pointed at his nose.