The Manuscript I the Secret by Blanca Miosi, Gretchen Abernathy Page B

a piece of paper.
    “ Veilen Dank, Herr Krug, thank you. I owe you. Please let me know if there’s ever anything I can do for you.”
    “ Hope hilft . It never hurts to have a debt ready to call in.” Krug smiled and added, “I’m sure there’s no need for me to tell you to be extremely careful. Many people are seeking his whereabouts, and he might be alarmed at your arrival. I advise you to use the utmost caution. And this should be in the strictest confidence: call him ‘Don Pedro.’”
    “I more than any am concerned for his secrecy, Mr. Krug. I assure you I will not compromise his safety.”
    “I would advise you to keep a low profile. It’s a poor neighborhood, you see? An outsider with your flair will attract attention.”
     
    A few days later, Claudio Contini-Massera was on the Alvarenga highway. It was a dusty road full of potholes that sent the truck driven by Wolfram Bossert jumping from side to side. He busied himself admiring the driver’s skill while the gentle melody of A garota de Ipanema filled the cab.
    At street number 5555, they came to a small yellow stucco house with a roof in disrepair. They filed down the narrow tiled walkway, and Bossert knocked at the door. A few moments later, a man with a walrus mustache opened it.
    The features of the man with the walrus mustache drew back into a cringe as he took in the tall figure accompanying Bossert.
    “Good afternoon, Don Pedro,” Bossert greeted. “I’ve brought a friend.”
    “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Count Claudio Contini-Massera.”
Don Pedro returned the handshake unenthusiastically.
    “And to what do I owe the honor of your visit?” The mustached man’s voice was caustic.
    “He comes highly recommended by Herr Krug, Don Pedro.” Bossert, visibly uncomfortable, explained in effort to calm their host.
    “That’s right, Don Pedro. I come in peace. I have a proposal for you.”
    “A proposal,” Don Pedro repeated quietly.
    “Yes, Don Pedro. I have brought some documents that may be of interest to you,” Claudio clarified.
    The man gave a start.
    “What are they about?” he inquired cautiously.
    “I found them in Armenia.”
    The man’s breathing became heavy. He was clearly attempting to cover his anxiety for something that seemed extremely important to him. His eyes took on an uncommon gleam, and a trace of fear appeared on the lips half hidden by his grey mustache. He motioned them inside and showed Claudio to a chair while he led Bossert to the still-open door.
    They passed outside, and Don Pedro turned to him, “How did he get here?” His voice betrayed a poorly concealed terror.
    “Alban Krug sent him to me. He checked up on him and talked with von Eckstein. The man can be trusted. I wouldn’t have brought him otherwise,” Bossert assured him.
    Don Pedro’s shoulders relaxed, and he looked at his friend. “Could you leave us alone awhile? I hope you will understand...”
    “Of course, friend. I’ll drive around for a bit and be back in an hour.”
    “Thank you, Bossert. You are a good man.”
    The mustached man went back inside the little house and sat down in front of Claudio.
    “Who are you?” he asked, screwing his green eyes up.
    “As I told you, I am Claudio Contini...”
    “You know that’s not what I mean,” the man interrupted.
    “Then first tell me who you really are. I can’t talk about this with just anyone,” Claudio held his ground.
    The man stood up abruptly. His haughty demeanor was out of place with his plain, albeit tidy, dress.
    “You need not be afraid, Don Pedro. You must trust me. I’m here to talk business,” Claudio sought to ease him.
    Don Pedro sat back down. He crossed his legs and scrutinized his visitor. Claudio felt like he was a prisoner being evaluated in one of the camps.
    “How did you find those documents? Where are they? Does anyone else know?”
    “The story of how I got them is irrelevant. I brought copies with me.” Claudio opened a folder and