During their luncheon, Lobo told Hall and Duarte what he had learned about Androtten from the American Government. The man was a German named Schmidt or Wincklemann (he had used passports in both names) who had a record as a German agent which went back to 1915. He had spent some time in Java, some years in Spanish Morocco, and the year of 1935 living in a villa at Estoril, the beach resort outside of Lisbon. "The record doesn't say what he was doing in Portugal," Lobo said. "My guess is that he was working with Sanjurjo."
"I'd back you on that," Hall said. "The old rumhound needed someone to hold his hand before the war."
"There are blank spaces in the record after that," Lobo said. "The next entry is the spring of 1938, when your Androtten was known as Wincklemann. He turned up in Rome as an art dealer specializing in Spanish masterpieces. He sold two Goyas and a Velasquez to three rich ladies in the British colony; told them the paintings were from the private collections of Spanish noblemen who had been ruined by the rojos. He was lying, of course—the paintings had all been taken from Spanish museums by the Nazis. Wincklemann disappeared, and the ladies finally sold the paintings back to the Franco government in 1940 for the same price. The last mention of Wincklemann or Schmidt is a paragraph from a letter mailed to Washington from Mexico in July, 1941. The letter was from the junta of Dominican opposition leaders and mentioned a Gunther Wincklemann as one of four Nazi agents who had been guests of Trujillo in the Dominican capital that month."
Hall borrowed an empty office in the Mexican Embassy for his appointment with the American officer. It went off well. Barrows was a plain-speaking man in his early forties, with the handshake of a young and vigorous boiler maker. He had a nice, unhurried way about him, his frosty blue eyes surveying Hall with good humor while he fussed with his thick-walled pipe. "I'd heard all sorts of conflicting stories about you," he said, smiling at the conflicts.
"I can imagine," Hall said.
"I wish I could tell you half of them."
"I know the Ambassador's half. Heard it in Havana."
Barrows snorted. "Have you a match that lights?" he asked. "I've been trying to get this pipe started for days." He refused a cigar. It was a match that he wanted. Hall had a lighter whose flame burned long enough to light the pipe. "There now," he said, "now we can talk. I know that you heard about the Ambassador's report. If it will make you feel any better, Skidmore got his tail singed for it." He was highly amused.
"Good." Hall was warming up to Barrows. "I hate stuffed shirts."