Blood and Honor

"You all right, Enrico?" Claudia asked, and went to the bar. "Do as I say, not as I do," she said, and poured a half-inch of scotch in a glass and tossed it down.

"Life will be empty without el Coronel," Enrico said.

"You have Se?or Cletus to take care of now," Claudia said.

"With my life, Se?ora," Enrico said simply.

"I wondered how you were going to handle Beatrice asking the Germans to come here," Claudia said.

"I'm indisposed," Clete said. "Humberto set this up."

"They're downstairs, exuding condolences and charm," she said.

Clete looked at Alicia. She nodded, signifying that Peter von Wachtstein was among them.

"We don't know that the Germans are responsible . . . ," Isabelle said.

"Jesus Christ, Isabela, not you and el Coronel Per?n . . . ," Clete flared.

Claudia touched his arm to stop him.

"What did you mean, about Colonel Per?n?" Claudia asked.

"I stopped by Uncle Willy's house last night. He was there. And having just come back from Germany, he finds it impossible to believe that. . ."

"Juan Domingo was your father's best friend."

"So he said."

"And you got off on the wrong foot."

Clete shrugged.

"He's going to be at the estancia over the weekend. You really should make an effort to get to know him."

"You mean come out there? Why?"

"You didn't know there's going to be a requiem mass at Nuestra Se?ora de los Milagros for your father on Sunday?"

"Not until just now, I didn't. What's that all about?"

"The people on the estancia naturally expect it. And there will be a number of other people. Your father's—our—close friends. A private mass, so to speak, as opposed to what they did here today. There will be about forty people, counting wives and family."

"And I have to go, naturally?"

Going out there would give me a chance to go to the radio station. And the sooner I do that, the better.

"Of course you must, Cletus. You're the new Patron of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. You'd better start getting used to that."

"That's not going to be easy."

"The people of your estancia, many of whom have never seen you, will expect to see their Patron there."

"OK. Anything to get out of my father's bedroom in the museum," Clete said, and quickly added, "Sorry, I didn't mean that the way it came out."

"I know," she said, then went on: "There's something else, Cletus. There are some papers in your father's safe that belong to General Rawson. He'll be staying with me at Estancia Santo Catalina, and I'd really like to have his papers for him when he arrives."

What kind of papers?

"Oh?"

"You do have the combination to the safe, don't you?"

And that was just a little too casual a question.

"I've never even seen the safe," Clete said "Enrico, what do you know about el Coronel's safe? Where's the combination?"

"Only el Coronel knew the combination, Se?or Clete," Enrico said.

"Well, then, I guess General Rawson will have to wait for his papers until we can get a locksmith out there," Clete said. "Or we could blow it open, if the papers are that important."

Claudia did not find that amusing.

"I just can't believe that your father didn't write the combination down somewhere," Claudia said. "Would you mind if I looked for it?"

Yeah, as a matter of fact, I would. I don't understand why, but the idea bothers me. Why do I have the feeling, Claudia, that you would rather that I don’t see what's in the safe?

"If this is important to you, Claudia, as soon as I get out there, I'll call you, and we'll look for it together," he said.

"I'm ... the girls and I ... are driving out to Santo Catalina tonight," Claudia said. "I thought I'd go over to San Pedro y San Pablo tomorrow and see if I could find the combination. If you have no objection to my looking for it, that is."

I can't have her getting into the safe before I do. I don't want her looking through the records of what Humberto has been doing for Peter.

And have I just been sandbagged? Is that persistence innocent, or because she knows damned well I'm not likely to tell her no again, no matter how politely? And what is in that safe that she— and General Rawson— don't want me to see?

"Does 'G.O.U.' mean anything to you, Claudia?" Clete asked.

He could see in her eyes that she knew what it was.

"What do you know about the G.O.U.?" she asked.

"Not nearly as much as I would like to," he said.

"Clete . . . ," she began, and stopped when a servant opened the door.

"Se?or Frade, Se?or Mallin and his family wish to pay their respects." "I'll leave you, Clete,"

Claudia said. "This has been a very long day for me.

She gave him her cheek to kiss.

"I need to talk to you, too, Claudia," Clete said, thinking of Dorotea.

"Call me when you get to San Pedro y San Pablo," she said, and then, "Let's go, girls."

They left the room, exchanging quiet greetings with the Mallins as they came in.

Chapter Nine

[ONE]

1420 Avenida Alvear

Buenos Aires, Argentina

1320 10 April 1943

Clete walked to the door to greet the Mallin family.

Enrico Mallin was forty-three years old, six feet two inches tall, and wore a full mustache. "Henry" met and married his wife, the former Pamela Holworth-Talley, while taking a degree at the London School of Economics. And they had two children: blond, fair-skinned, lanky "Little Enrico," their fifteen-year-old son; and Dorotea. In her black dress and veiled hat, Clete thought, she looked more beautiful than any female he had ever seen.

Clete was aware that Enrico Mallin believed his daughter had shown an interest in Clete that was inappropriate for one of her tender years, purity, and standing in the community.

If you could, Henry, you'd have paidpro forma respects to Beatrice and Humberto and taken your family out of here as quickly as possible. The only reason you're up here to smile at me is because your business is dependent on the crude and refined petroleum products it gets from Howell Petroleum, and you don't want to risk offending the Old Man's grandson.

What the hell, if I was in your shoes, I'd probably feel the same way about me. Me being too old for your innocent nineteen-year-old daughter— which is true— isn't one tenth of what's wrong with Cletus H. Frade as a suitor. After what they tried to do to me— what they did to my father— only a lunatic would want his daughter— or any member of his family— within five miles of me.

"Good afternoon, Se?or Mallin. How good of you to call," he said politely.

"Our sympathy for your loss should go without speaking, Cletus. Your father was a magnificent man, who will be sorely missed."

"Thank you."

"Mrs. Mallin," Clete went on. "How are you, Ma'am?"

"For the fifty-fifth time, Clete, please call me 'Pamela,'" Se?ora Mallin said, and gave him her cheek to kiss. "I'm so sorry about el Coronel."

"Thank you," Clete said.

"What do you say, Enrico?" Clete said, and punched Little Enrico, man-to-man, on the arm.

"I am very sorry about your father, Cletus," Little Enrico said.

And then Clete turned to Dorotea.

"And the lovely Se?orita Mallin," he said, putting out his hand. "How have you been, Dorotea?"

"Very well, thank you, all things considered," Dorotea said. "I'm very sorry about your loss, Clete."

"Thank you."

"And how is your grandfather, Cletus?" Henry Mallin asked.

"Mean as a rattlesnake, as usual," Clete said, immediately regretting it. The Argentine—and particularly the Anglo-Argentine—sense of humor was markedly different from that of Texas and Louisiana.

Little Henry made a noise somewhere between a chuckle and a giggle.

His father glared at him, then moved the glare to Clete.

Clete smiled at the man who was blissfully unaware he was about to become both a grandfather and a father-in-law.

"My grandfather asked me to extend his best regards to you and your family, Se?or Mallin," he said.

"How kind of him."

"May I offer you some refreshment?"

"No, thank you. We must be going. We wished to pay our respects."

"It was very kind of you."

"Clete, you come to see us, lunch, dinner, or just to visit, just as soon as you find time," Se?ora Mallin said, to her husband's discomfiture.

"Yes, do that," Dorotea chimed in mischievously. "We have so much to talk about."

Her father headed for the door, followed by Little Henry, his wife, and Dorotea. Without realizing he was doing it, Clete went after them, his hand reaching to touch Dorotea's shoulder as if with a mind of its own.

She turned, looked into his eyes, then touched her lips with her fingers and moved the kiss to Clete's lips. Clete didn't think either her father or her brother saw this, but he knew her mother did. She looked at Clete, asking without words what that was all about.

Clete met Dorotea's mother's eyes, nodded his head, and shrugged.

I am forced to confirm herewith, Se?ora, your worst suspicions and fears. Well, maybe not yourworst suspicions and fears.

"Oh, my!" Pamela Mallin said. "Oh, my!" And then scurried quickly down the corridor after her husband.

Clete watched them for a moment and then turned.

Enrico was standing there, startling him, and then mystifying him. He was simultaneously solemnly winking at Clete and tapping his temple with his index finger.

What the hell is that all about?

"it is here, Se?or Clete," Enrico said.

"What's there?"

"The combination to el Coronel's safe."

"Oh, really?"

"If you would like, I can drive out there tonight and bring the contents of the safe to you."

Clete's next visitor interrupted the conversation. And again startled him.

"Christ, where did you come from?" Clete blurted.

First Lieutenant Anthony J. Pelosi, Corps of Engineers, Army of the United States, had come through what a moment before Clete believed to be a solid, paneled wall.

"What we will do, Enrico, is leave for San Pedro y San Pablo very early in the morning," Clete said. He waited for Enrico to nod his understanding, then gave in to his curiosity and went to examine the door.

A masterpiece of fine carpentry— or is it cabinetmaking?—it blended invisibly with the paneled wall when closed. Only on close examination could Clete find a toe-activated panel that functioned as a doorknob.

"It leads to the kitchen" Tony Pelosi said. "Your uncle sent me up that way."

He was a swarthy, short young man who had two weeks before celebrated his twenty-first birthday. His muscular arms and chest strained the tunic of his pink and green Class "A" uniform.

The insignia of the Eighty-second Airborne Division was sewn on the sleeve of his tunic, and the breast carried silver parachutist's wings and two medals. One was the Silver Star medal, the third-highest award for valor, and the other announced that the wearer had served in the American Theater of Operations. It was automatically awarded after ninety days of service. Pelosi's sharply creased pink trousers were bloused around the tops of highly polished parachutist's jump boots.

Tony,Clete thought, is probably the only man in the U.S. Army, Navy, or Marine Corps who has won the Silver Star for service in the American Theater of Operations, which is defined as the continental United States and South America, theoretically far from any shots fired in anger.

"How are you, Tony?" Clete said, turning to him and shaking his hand. "I went looking for you yesterday. You weren't home."

"I was probably standing in line at the Edificio Libertador," Tony said. Italian emotions overwhelmed him. The handshake turned into an embrace. "Jesus, Clete, I'm sorry about your dad."

"Thank you," Clete said.

After the emotional moment passed, Tony, looking a little embarrassed, went to Enrico.

"How are you, Sergeant Major?" he asked.

"Mi Teniente," Enrico said. Visibly torn between saluting an officer and embracing him, he finally did both.

"You all right?" Tony asked when Enrico finally released him.

"I am fine," Enrico said.

"He is not," Clete said. "He took what was probably a .45 slug—it gouged a three-inch hole in his head—and he took 00-buckshot in his chest and arm."

"Jesus!"

"I am fine," Enrico repeated firmly.

Tony turned to Clete.

"I couldn't get into Our Lady of Pilar this morning, Clete. No invitation."

"Sorry, I didn't think about that."

"But after the mass was over, I went in and lit a candle for him, and after that I went to the tomb and said a little prayer."

"Thank you, Tony."

"And after that I came here. And had trouble getting in, no invitation. But I threw a fit, and waved my diplomatic carnet around, and finally the cop outside caved in."

"I just didn't think about getting you invitations, Tony. I'm sorry."

"Christ, you had enough on your mind, Clete. Don't apologize."

Clete decided to lighten the conversation.

"You look like a recruiting poster," he said. " 'Join the Airborne and see the World.'"

Tony did not react well to what Clete hoped would be a joke.

"I thought wearing my uniform was the right thing to do," he said. "And when I saw those fucking Krauts downstairs in theirs, I was glad I did. Sorry, if you think that was wrong."

"It was the right thing to do, Tony. My father would have appreciated you wearing your uniform, and I do."

"OK," Tony said, accepting what he recognized as an apology, then moving to what was on his mind: "The Ambassador got a SECRET cable last night saying that Lieutenant Commander Frederico J. Delojo, the new Naval Attach?, would be on the Pan American flight today. You want to tell what that's all about?"

"How did you get access to a SECRET addressed to the Ambassador?"

"I seduced one of the crypto guys," Tony said. "A real feather merchant from Iowa or someplace like that. Buck sergeant."

"'Seduced'?Or 'corrupted'?" Clete interrupted, smiling.

"Whatever. I showed him my OSS ID. He practically pissed in his pants. Anything you want to know about cable or radio traffic to the Embassy, just ask me."

"And you're not worried he'll tell anybody you . . . seduced him?"

"I told him we shoot people who identify OSS agents," Tony said. "And he believes me."

"Maybe we can make a spy out of you yet, Tony," Clete said.

Tony flushed with Clete's approval.

"You going to tell me about Commander Delojo? You were supposed to be the Naval Attach?. What's going on?"

"Not here, Tony," Clete said. "You remember where my father's house is?"

Tony nodded.

"OK. Give me twenty minutes to get out of here. I'll catch a taxi over there—"

"Your Buick is here, Se?or Clete," Enrico interrupted.

"You had it brought here?" Clete asked, surprised. "Why?"

"It attracts less attention to carry a shotgun in a private car than in a taxi, Se?or Clete."

"So it does," Clete said, smiling. "It's in the basement?"

“S?, Se?or Clete."

"OK. Tony, anytime in the next twenty minutes, go down to the garage in the basement. I'll make an appearance downstairs, and meet you there."

After Tony realized that Enrico was hurt worse than he was willing to admit, he finally persuaded him to take the front passenger seat in the Buick, but only after he argued that using the shotgun from there would be easier than from the back, if using it became necessary.

Clete came to the garage a half hour later, having taken longer to do his manners in the reception than he imagined. The exit from the basement garage let them out behind the house, on Avenida Posadas, and they were thus able to avoid the crowd still on Avenida Alvear.

When he adjusted the rearview mirror, Clete noticed a car, an English Ford, called an "Anglia," pull away from the curb and follow them. When he reached Avenida del Libertador and turned left, the Anglia was still on his tail. There was no question they were being followed.

He considered, and immediately dismissed, the idea that it might be another set of German-sent assassins. There hadn't been time to plan something like that, and he didn't think even the Germans would try to kill the son on the same day he buried his father!

But who is trailing me? And why? To keep track of my movements, or to protect me ?

The route to the Avenida Coronel Diaz took them past the residence of the Ambassador of the United States of America to the Argentine Republic. The American flag flew over the four-story mansion, whose grounds took in most of the block.

Primarily to keep Enrico from finding out they were being trailed— God only knows how he would react—Clete leaned across him and pointed out the statue of George Washington in the park across from the Ambassador's residence.

"George Washington, Tony. You ever see that before?"

"Yeah," Tony replied without much interest.

"He had bad teeth," Clete announced.

"What?"

"While I was futzing around Washington, I drove over to Mount Vernon," Clete said. "They've got his false teeth on display. They're wood. Jesus, he probably couldn't eat anything but mush."

"No shit?"

"If they had shown me those wooden choppers when I was a kid, they wouldn't have any trouble getting me to brush my teeth."

"Between bullshit lectures on how I was supposed to behave 'as a member of the diplomatic community' and that crypto class at Camp A. P. Hill, I didn't have any time in Washington to do anything but piss and brush my teeth," Tony said.

Clete laughed.

"Wooden teeth, Se?or Clete?" Enrico asked in disbelief.

"Wooden teeth, Enrico," Clete said.

The Anglia stayed with them until they turned into the drive of the house on Avenida Coronel Diaz, when it drove slightly past the house and pulled to the curb.

I will have to keep in mind that Enrico didn't spot that car. He’s good, but he's not perfect.

[TWO]

1728 Avenida Coronel Diaz

Palermo, Buenos Aires

1545 10 April 1943

Tony looked around in exaggerated awe as they passed through the hotel-size foyer of the Frade mansion.

"You're going to live here? Won't you be a little cramped for space?"

"I'd like to move back into the house on Libertador, but there's a colonel named Per?n staying there."

"Who's he?"

"My father's best friend. He just came back from Germany."

"What was he doing in Germany?"

"I have no idea," Clete said, "but he told me he finds it impossible to believe the Germans were involved in my father's assassination."

"Oh, shit!" Tony said. "Clete, my back teeth are floating."

"Over there," Clete said, stopping on the first step of the stairs to the second floor and pointing. "Unless you can wait until we get upstairs?"

"Over there will do very nicely, thank you very much, Major, Sir," Tony said, and walked quickly to the restroom.

Enrico touched Clete's arm.

"Se?or Clete, we are being followed by the clowns. One of their cars, an Anglia, followed us from Avenida Alvear."

"You didn't say anything."

"We don't have to worry about the clowns any longer, Se?or Clete. El Coronel Mart?n is now one of us," Enrico said, and then asked, "You did not notice that we were being followed?"

Clete shook his head, "no."

"You must be on the lookout for such things," Enrico said. "A car following you may not be a clown car."

"You're right."

Tony came out of the restroom a moment later, a look of satisfaction on his face, and the three of them continued up the stairs.

Once they were in his bedroom, Clete rang for a maid, ordered drinks and something to nibble on, then changed out of his suit and into a pair of khakis.

"OK," he said, walking back into the sitting from his bedroom to find Tony drinking from the neck of a bottle of Quilmes beer. "I feel better. I really wanted to get out of that suit."

He spotted a silver wine cooler filled with ice and beer and took one, dismissing the maid's offer of a glass, and the maid herself, with a smile and a waved hand.

He slumped into an armchair facing Tony.

"How was your leave?" Clete asked, taking a sip of his beer.

"We came all the way over here to talk about my leave?"

"Indulge me, Tony. I've had a bad couple of days. This is the first time I've had a chance to sit down and relax."

Tony gave him a strange look, then shrugged.

"Very nice," he said. "My leave was nice. I could have done without those bullshit briefings in Washington. And the crypto school was worse."

"They were necessary, I suppose. I went through them too."

"Not the crypto school, you didn't," Tony corrected him. "Or the aerial photography school."

"What did you tell your family?"

"I told them what the OSS told me to tell them. We're building a secret air base in Brazil. I'm handling the demolitions."

"They believe you?"

"Yeah. My mother said a novena to thank God for getting me out of the Eighty-second Airborne, where I was liable to have to do something dangerous."

"Obviously, you didn't wear your Silver Star in Chicago."

"I didn't get it until I went to Washington."

"Did you tell your family about Maria-Teresa?"

"If I told my mother I'd found a girl down here, she would think Maria-Teresa has a ring in her nose and runs around in the jungle wearing a grass skirt and no shirt."

"As long as she's Italian and Catholic, what's wrong with the ring in Maria-Teresa's nose?"

"I want to marry her, Clete."

"Is that a statement, or are you asking for advice?"

Tony shrugged.

"Tony, I spent the last two hours on the plane rehearsing the speech that I was going to give to break it off with Dorotea" Clete said. "It was a good speech, but I never got to use it. I'll be happy to give it to you. The major point is that we're in the wrong business to get married."

"It sounds like you changed your mind."

"The situation changed," Clete said dryly, and then added: "Dorotea's pregnant."

Tony raised his eyebrows. "When did you find that out?"

"This morning," Clete said.

"Her father will shit a brick," Tony said. "He doesn't like Americans in general, and you, Ettinger, and me in particular."

"I don't think he will be beside himself with joy," Clete agreed. "And neither will my grandfather."

"What's he got against Dorotea?"

"He hates all Argentines."

"Jesus, Clete. What are you going to do? Marry her?"

"I don't really have any choice, do I?"

"Now I see what you mean about having a couple of bad days," Tony said. "When are you going to marry her?"

"I just found out this morning that she's pregnant, for Christ's sake! Nobody knows but Dorotea, me, and now you."

"Where are you going to live?" Tony asked, and from the tone of his voice, Clete understood that it was not an idle question.

"You really think those bastards would come after her?"

"They got Se?ora Pellano," Tony said. "She was an innocent bystander."

"I hadn't thought about where we'll live. Either here—it would be safer than Libertador—or at the estancia."

"She'd probably be all right here," Tony said practically. "This place is built like a bank. But the estancia would be better, obviously."

Clete didn't want to think about, much less talk about, the danger Dorotea was going to find herself in. He changed the subject again.

"Is Maria-Teresa pushing you to get married?"

"She's a good Italian Catholic. Good Italian Catholic girls can't go to confession and get absolution unless they swear to God that they'll stop . . . you know. If they don't get absolution, they can't take Holy Communion. That kind of pushing. She hasn't said anything."

"You haven't told her what you do, I hope?"

"Her father thinks the Reine de la Mer blew up by itself; that all the talk about Americans taking it out is bullshit. I sit there nodding my head in agreement. Maria-Teresa thinks I'm sort of a clerk for the Military Attach? at the embassy. So does he, by the way, the Military Attach?."

"He's giving you trouble?"

"Not trouble. He's a colonel, I'm a lieutenant. When colonels have things they don't want to do, and there's a lieutenant around, the lieutenant does them. Last week, I inventoried the Embassy Post Exchange."

"No kidding?" Clete asked, chuckling. "That's right. He doesn't know you're OSS, does he?"

"I was told to wait until you got back and tell him. But I don't know. They gossip like fucking women around the embassy. I think everybody there knows you're OSS. And some people know I was here before."

"Commander Delojo will get him off your back."

"Are we back to him, I hope?" Tony said.

"OK. Sorry, Tony. I needed a minute. Your fearless leader has feet of clay."

"What the fuck does that mean, 'feet of clay'? I've always wondered."

"You know, I don't know," Clete confessed. "It probably means I'm telling you that you see in me a lot more than you can expect to get."

"I don't know," Tony said thoughtfully. "I mean, aside from nearly getting Mrs. Pelosi's baby boy killed, doing something that nobody in their right fucking mind would even think about trying to do, what have you done so wrong?"

"You want me to(start with the replenishment ship?"

"Why not?"

"There's not really much more on that than when you left Washington," Clete said. "We're getting lots of intelligence about ships headed in this direction. The last count was five of them. Nothing specific, nothing solid, on any one of them."

"Maybe they're sending five so we can't take them all out."

"Graham says that's not likely. For one thing, the Germans don't have that many torpedoes."

"How does Graham know that?"

"They've got a good idea of how many the Germans can make, and they're not all that hard to spot when they're being moved. Graham thinks that one of the five ships is the replacement; the others are decoys. The real ship, Graham says, may not be one of the five we know about."

"What about the airplane? How are you going to get that into the country now that . . ."

". . . my father can't arrange it?" Clete furnished. "I don't know. Graham may come up with something. It's in Brazil, and so is the other team. They've been told to prepare to infiltrate across the Uruguay River into Corrientes Province, near some town called Santo Tome. Until Delojo gets, quote, his feet on the ground, unquote, that's something else I'm supposed to figure out how to do, get them—and all their goddamned equipment—from there to here."

"Tell me about Delojo," Tony said. "What's this business all about that you've retired from the Marines—I saw that story in the Herald —and this Commander Whatsisname has become the Naval Attach??"

"Graham convinced me I would be more useful if I came back here as an Argentine. Out of the Marines, and as an Argentine. That way, presuming this coup d’?tat they're planning comes off, I'm supposed to be in a position to influence the new government."

"But if you came back as an Argentine . . . How did you manage that, by the way?"

"I've got an Argentine passport."

"A real one?"

"A real one. File this away. I've got Argentine passports for you, Ettinger, and the Chief, too. Or I did. Where are they, Enrico?"

"In the safe at San Pedro y San Pablo," Enrico said. "I did not want Se?ora Carzino-Cormano to see them."

And I goddamned sure don't want General Rawson— or, for that matter, Claudia— to see them. I've got to get into that goddamned safe before she does!

"I don't understand any of that," Tony said.

"Just before we took out the Reine de la Mer, my father got us passports in case we had to leave Argentina in a hurry."

Tony nodded his understanding, then asked: "But if you came here on an Argentine passport. . . Christ, you're not traveling on a diplomatic passport?"

"No."

"You realize what that means? If I get caught doing something I shouldn't be doing down here, all they can do is throw me out of the country. Christ only knows what they'll do to you. I can't believe you were dumb enough to go along with that."

"None of us had diplomatic passports the first time we came down here. Ettinger still doesn't have one."

"We had American passports. They'd think twice before standing an American citizen in front of a wall. An Argentine? You're likely to get yourself shot on general principles."

"I don't think that's likely."

"Everybody with enough brains to find their ass with one hand knows we're OSS, Clete. Who does Graham think we're fooling?"

"I don't think Graham thinks we're fooling anybody."

"Then what?"

"Our team, Tony—presuming Captain Ashton's radar gets here, and works—is going to have very little to do with taking out the replacement replenishment ship, except for using our radio to communicate with the submarine. Graham hopes everybody will be so busy watching us, they won't be looking too hard for another team."

"And what if Ashton can't get his radar in here?"

"Then we'll have to locate the ship."

"With a Piper Cub?"

"Unless I can figure out some way to get the C-45 into Argentina."

"How's the other team going to take it out?"

"You weren't briefed?"

"You explain it to me."

"Graham will let us know the name of the ship as soon he finds out. Then we find out roughly where it is in Samboromb?n Bay. Once we do that, Ashton can keep track of it with his radar. Then they send in another submarine to sink it."

"And if Captain Ashton and his magic radar can't get into Argentina? Or his radar doesn't work?"

"I think it will work," Clete said. "The problem is getting it into the country."

"You know as much about radars as I do," Tony said. "Zero. On the other hand, the Chief knows all about them. When I told him this nutty idea, he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He says there's no radar in the world that can locate a ship within a hundred yards."

The Chief was Chief Radioman Oscar J. Schultz, USN, formerly of the USS Alfred Thomas, DD-107. Chief Schultz volunteered for OSS service when he learned during a "Courtesy Call" of his ship to Buenos Aires that the team's radioman, Sergeant David Ettinger, couldn't handle all that had to be done by himself.

"I think he's wrong. If he's right, I'll go out and find it with one of the Piper Cubs."

"If they were going to send us out to light it up again, you'd tell me, right?"

"That's not going to happen. But—if I can figure some way to get the C-45 into the country—we'll probably have to take pictures of it."

"Don't bust your ass trying to get that C-45 into the country," Tony said. "One trip like the last one is enough for me, thank you. And what is this picture-taking bullshit all about, anyway?"

"The idea, I think, is that if we have photographs of the ship actually supplying a submarine, then when we take it out—either with another sub, or with bombers, whatever—and the Portuguese or the Spanish start screaming, they can show them the pictures, and say, 'Yeah, we sank it. This is why, fuck you.' "

"Let me get this straight. What you're saying is that all we, our team, has to do is find the new ship, take pictures of it supplying a submarine, and Ashton and his team will do everything else."

"They will use our radio to communicate with the sub." Clete said. "But yeah, until something else comes up, and it probably will, that's about it. What I'm supposed to do is try to tilt Argentina—influence the people who will run Argentina after the coup—toward the United States. Or at least keep them from tilting the other way. If I don't do something stupid, I don't think that will get me in serious trouble. I don't intend to blow up the Casa Rosada, Tony." (The Casa Rosada—"The Pink House," so-called because of its color—is Argentina's seat of government.)

"That's all?" Tony asked in disbelief.

"That's it."

"What's my relationship to Commander Whatsisname?"

"None. He knows who you are, of course. But I am still in command of our team."

"Ettinger and the Chief, too?"

Christ, I didn't think to ask Graham about the Chief. The Chief is assigned to the Office of the Naval Attach?, and Delojo's liable to assume he belongs to him. And Graham didn't say anything. And Graham avoided the question when I asked him about my relationship with Delojo. Damn!

"Until I hear otherwise, the Chief is part of our team. We need him to run the radio station. Ettinger can't run it by himself."

"Where do you get your orders? From Delojo? Doesn't a commander outrank a major?"

Absolutely. Is that why Graham avoided my question, because I should have understood that? But hedidn't answer the question. So fuck him, until it's spelled out, I do not take my orders from Delojo.

"That doesn't apply here," Clete said. "I get my orders from Graham."

"Jesus, you had me worried there for a minute."

"Don't rub it in his face, but if he starts something you don't like, tell me, and I'll stop it. I don't think it will happen. When he gets here, I'll make sure he understands that you, Ettinger, and the Chief work for me."

"Good."

"How are they, by the way? I went looking for Dave, but he wasn't home."

"He's at the radio station. They're fine. I go out there every couple of days—when I'm not inventorying the PX, or some other bullshit—and bring them cigarettes, stuff from the PX, et cetera, and their mail."

"They stay out there?"

"The Chief does. Ettinger spends most of his time in Buenos Aires. The estancia is a good place for us to meet."

"I'm driving out there first thing in the morning. I'll come out to the station to see you and Ettinger and the Chief, but I don't want either you or Ettinger to come to the house. They're having another funeral service for my father, for the people on the estancia. And a lot of people will be out there that I don't want to see you and start wondering."

"Right. These people that are going to be out there? G.O.U.?"

"You know about the G.O.U.?"

Tony nodded.

"Yeah, Leibermann told me. They're about to overthrow the government."

"Who told you?"

"Milt Leibermann. They call him the Legal Attach?, but what he really is is the FBI guy. And he knows who we really work for. And he wants to talk to you, too, just as soon as possible."

"Oh, Christ, Tony!"

"Something wrong?"

"I have specific orders about that. I am, which means you are, to have as little contact, preferably none, with the FBI."

"Why not?"

"Wild Bill Donovan and J. Edgar Hoover don't like each other."

"Come on, it has to be more than that."

"Congress gave Hoover—the FBI—authority to conduct intelligence and counterintelligence operations in the Western Hemisphere. Hoover believes that includes covert activities—what we did, in other words. But the President gave the OSS responsibility, worldwide, for intelligence, counterintelligence, and special operations, which means open and covert sabotage, espionage, everything. Since South America is included in everybody's definition of the wide world, Donovan thinks Hoover's walking on his grass here. And vice versa. Graham was serious about this. Stay away from the FBI guy."

"He's a nice guy, Clete."

"Stay away from him, Tony. That's an order."

"Yes, Sir." Tony shrugged. "But I really think you ought to see him, Clete."

"Maybe later."

"I told him I'd try to get you to meet him in the Cafe Colon at half past nine," Tony said, uneasily. "He said he'll be there."

"You mean tonight?" Clete asked incredulously. "What gave you the idea you have the authority to make appointments for me?"

"I thought you wouldn't mind, Clete."

"Well, 1 goddamned well do!"

"OK," Tony said, chastened and chagrined. "It won't happen again, Clete."

Damn! There's already enough bad blood between the FBI and the OSS. If 1 don't show up to meet this guy, it will get worse.

"Where the hell is the—what did you say, Cafe Colon?"

"Cafe Colon," Tony confirmed. "Right behind the Opera. ( Buenos Aires' Teatro de Colon, on the Avenida 9 de Julio, is one of the world's largest opera houses.) There's a basement. He said he would wait for you there."

"How's he going to recognize me?" Clete wondered aloud, annoyed.

"He's got a picture of you."

"You gave a him a picture of me?" Clete asked incredulously.

"He had one. He showed it to me. It shows you getting out of a cab at the National Institutes of Health."

"Jesus Christ! The FBI's running around taking pictures of people in the OSS in Washington?"

Tony shrugged.

"I guess so. He had your picture."

"I'm going to meet this guy . . . what did you say his name was?" Clete said.

"Leibermann."

"I am going to meet Mr. Leibermann of the FBI, and as politely as possible let him know I am not interested in making new friends. And you don't ever do something like this again, OK?"

Tony nodded, accepting the rebuke, then asked, "You see the SS guy at your uncle's house?"

Clete shook his, "no."

"Bird fucking colonel of the SS. Fancy black uniform, with skulls on the collar. I can't believe they had the balls to show up there."

"If they didn't show up, it might look like they had something to do with my father's murder," Clete said. "And speaking of wearing that, you look like a recruiting poster. But wearing that Silver Star isn't too smart. What are you going to say if somebody asks you what you got it for?"

"I thought about that. I wore it for your father. If it hadn't been for him, I wouldn't be around to wear it. And I figure they took him out because of how I got it, what we did. And I figured nobody here knows what the fuck it is anyway. The Argentines give out medals for not missing Mass three months running."

Clete chuckled.

"What are you going to do about what happened to your father?" Tony asked.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well, I figure it was either this SS guy or the Military Attach?, Gr?ner, who ordered your father killed. Your friend von Wachtstein probably knows and would tell you."

"So?"

"You know that plastic explosive we got in Uruguay and never used? I used a little bit of it, just to see what it would do. A piece about this big, Clete" —he held up his fist, thumb extended— "rigged by somebody who knew how . . ."

Jesus Christ, he's serious!

"Forget it, Tony!"

". . . say in a telephone . . ."

"Hey, I said no."

". . . would blow his fucking brains out his other ear."

Clete shook his head back and forth.

"Your father was a good guy, Clete. He saved my life. They shouldn't be allowed to get away with what they did to him."

"Thank you, Tony, but no. And I mean that. I mean thank you, and I mean no. Not now, anyway."

"Let me know if you change your mind," Tony said. "I consider it a matter of honor."

Clete glanced at Enrico and thought that Enrico would think Tony had both a splendid idea and the proper attitude concerning revenge.

There was a discreet knock at the door, followed immediately by the appearance of Antonio.

"Pardon me, Se?or. A Se?orita Mallin has called. I have asked her to wait in the reception while I saw whether or not you were at home."

"Oh, ho!" Tony said, smiling and winking at Clete. He glanced at his watch. "I've got to get out of here anyway. And let the BIS guys go home to their wives and kiddies."

"What?"

"The BIS has been following me around ever since you got here. You didn't notice the Ford Anglia following us over here from Alvear?"

Clete shook his head "no" and looked at Enrico.

"Yeah, well, trust me, there was. And they're parked across the street now."

"Get out of here, Tony," Clete ordered. "And you too, Enrico."

"I will change out of my uniform for the last time," Enrico said, rising to his feet. "After I put el Teniente into a taxi."

"Please show Se?orita Mallin up, Antonio," Clete said.

THREE

The door opened, and the No-Longer-Virgin Princess came in. She was now wearing a tweed skirt and a powder-blue sweater.

She looks like the Tulane homecoming queen. Nicer. The time I dated the homecoming queen, she turned out to be a bitch.

My God, she's beautiful!

"You didn't call me," she accused.

"I. . . uh . . ."

"What have you been doing?" Dorotea demanded, and then, noticing the beer bottles and the wine cooler full of iced beer, answered her own question. "You've been swilling beer!"

"Guilty," he said.

"I have been waiting by the telephone for hours!"

"I... uh ... didn't think I should call," he said. "Your father—"

"Didn't what I told you mean anything to you?" Dorotea asked, now closer to tears than an expression of shocked indignation.

"Jesus Christ, Princess," Clete said. It came out a moan.

She looked into his eyes for a long moment and then laughed.

"If you're afraid to just call me because of Daddy, what are you going to do about telling him?"

"I don't know," he confessed. "How did you get away?"

"Mother helped," she said. "I started to cry when Daddy called your Uncle Humberto and said we wouldn't be going out to Estancia Santo Catalina after all for the mass for your father."

"You were going to Santo Catalina?"

With Ramirez, Rawson, and most of the G.O. U. there? What the hell is that all about? How many people did Claudia say are going to be there, forty? Maybe some of them have nothing to do with the G.O.U.; they'll be there to make it look like all that's going on are people visiting Claudia out of sympathy.

"Weregoing. Henry couldn't wait to tell Daddy he'd seen you kissing my fingers."

"Jesus!"

"I'm supposed to be at the movies. There's a new Bing Crosby and Bob Hope flick— Road to Morocco—at the Belgrano. It's supposed to cheer me up."

"Oh."

"What are we going to do, Cletus?"

"What are we going to do about what?"

"What do you think?" Dorotea asked, exasperated.

"What are my options?"

"You bastard!"

"Would you like me to get down on my knees?"

"That would be nice," she said.

"Jesus, I almost forgot," he said.

"Forgot what?"

He went into the bathroom. After a moment, curiosity got the better of her and she followed him. He was rooting around in his toilet kit.

"What on earth are you doing?" Dorotea demanded.

He handed her a ring. She looked at it dubiously.

"What's this?"

"It's my mother's," Clete said. "My grandfather gave it to me. Her high-school ring. I ... uh ... when he gave it to me, I thought maybe you'd like to have it."

"It's beautiful," she said, not very convincingly. "It looks Catholic."

"Yeah. Sacred Heart Convent in New Orleans. About as Catholic as you can get. All the nice girls in New Orleans go to Sacred Heart."

"I thought your mother was Church of England."

"She was Episcopalian. More or less the same thing. She converted to Catholicism when she married my father."

And it killed her.

"I want to be married in the Anglican Church. I want our baby to be raised as an Anglican."

"I haven't even asked you to marry me yet."

She slipped the ring on her finger.

"It fits," she said. "And it was your mother's. I'll never take it off." She immediately had second thoughts, and took it off. "After you talk to Daddy. After that, I'll never take it off. I don't want to get him hysterical before you talk."

She pulled her sweater up and put the ring into her white brassiere, which was all she had on under the sweater. Cletus found the act excruciatingly erotic.

"Until then, I'll keep it next to my heart," she said, and looked at him, read his mind, and announced: "They're swelling."

"Really?"

"They're swelling, and they're tender. Would you like to see?"

"Christ!"

"Not until you've proposed properly," she said.

"You first," Clete said.

"Me propose?"

"Show me first," he said.

"You are really a very wicked man," Dorotea said. "My father's probably right about you."

Then, her eyes locked on his, she very deliberately pulled the sweater over

her head, dropped it onto the floor, then reached behind her back and unfastened her brassiere.

The telephone on the bedside table rang.

"Who the hell can that be?" Dorotea snapped. '"Don't answer it, Cletus!"

She was lying naked on top of him, with her face on his chest. When she spoke, he could feel the warmth of her breath.

Antonio maybe doesn't know exactly what's going on up here, but he knows I don't want to be disturbed. That call is probably important.

He picked up the telephone.

"A gentleman insists on speaking with you, Se?or Frade," Antonio said. "He says he's from 'Texas A and M.'"

From the way Antonio pronounced the phrase, it was clear that he had no idea what it was.

"Put him through," Clete ordered. Dorotea snorted.

"Just checking in," Commander Delojo said. "I'm—temporarily—at the Plaza Hotel. I'd hoped we could get together soon."

"Not before Tuesday or Wednesday, I'm afraid. I'll get word to you through our friend."

"Fine," Delojo said. "Good to hear your voice."

The line went dead.

"I hope that was important," Dorotea said.

"Yes, it was."

"More important than us? Wouldn't it have waited?"

She lowered her head and nipped him on the nipple, then suddenly pushed herself off him.

"Oh, my God!" Dorotea cried. "What time is it? How long have we been here?"

"Not nearly long enough."

"By now Daddy will have called the Belgrano, found out what time the movie was over, and be sitting by the front door with his watch in his hand."

"He's going to have to find out sooner or later that we've been up to more than finger kissing. Preferably sooner, under the circumstances."

"Not today, thank you," she said, and pushed herself off him and slipped out of bed.

She bent over to reclaim the clothing strewn all over the floor and trotted naked into the bathroom.

"You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life," Clete called after her.

"After we have our baby, I will be fat and ugly and you won't even want to look at me."

"Jesus, Dorotea!"

"I wish women could just lay eggs, like chickens," Dorotea called from the bathroom. "You know, just sit on a nest."

"You're a lunatic!" he called as she closed the bathroom door.

He put his hands under his head and looked around the room.

I probably should have some sort of guilty feeling, making love to her in my father's bed on the day I buried him, but I don't.

"You want me to take you home?" he asked in nearly a shout.

"God, no!" Dorotea called back. "Put me in a taxi!"

He got out of bed, pulled on his clothes, and reached for his battered pair of cowboy boots.

She came out of the bathroom—much sooner than he expected—as he was stomping his feet in the boots.

"Those boots are a disgrace," she said.

"I like them."

"What and when are you going to do about telling Daddy?"

"What, I don't know. When, next week. I really have to go to the estancia."

"Why don't you talk to your Uncle Humberto? Or Claudia?"

"You want them to know?"

"Everybody is going to know, darling, sooner or later," Dorotea said with unanswerable logic.

"OK. You're right. Claudia, I think."

"Call me when you have something to tell me," she said. "And now, put me in a cab."

"I love you, Princess," Clete said.

"I should hope so. I don't do what we just did with just anybody."

She kissed him, rather chastely, on the lips, and walked to the door and waited for him to open it.

"Antonio will know what we've been up to," he said mischievously.

"Everybody will soon know what we've been up to," she said. "But I would rather that Daddy learned it from you."

Holding hands, they descended the stairway to the foyer.

"There are cars here," he said. "Hell, I can send you home in a Rolls Royce."

"A taxi will do nicely, thank you just the same," she said.

As they reached the door, Enrico, now in a suit, appeared from nowhere.

"Se?orita Mallin requires a taxi," Clete said.

"I will have the chaffeur take her. Of if you wish, Se?or Clete, I will take her myself."

"A taxi, please," Dorotea said.

“S?, Se?orita," Enrico said. He turned toward an umbrella stand, and when he turned back, Clete saw he was holding a double-barreled twelve-bore vertically beside his leg.

"Is that necessary?" Clete asked.

Enrico ignored the question.

"I'll find a taxi. You and the Se?orita wait here."

He crossed the narrow area between the house and the fence, went through the gate, stepped out onto Avenida Coronel Diaz, and flagged down a taxi, a Model A Ford with the upper body painted yellow.

When the door was open, he motioned for Clete to bring Dorotea.

"Why did I have to fall in love with a man people are trying to kill?" Dorotea asked. She did not seem at all frightened. "Darling, telephone me just as soon as you talk to Claudia."

"OK."

She kissed him quickly and chastely on the cheek, then ran to the taxi and stepped in.

Clete watched the taxi drive off, then walked back into the foyer and went back upstairs.

Chapter Ten

[ONE]

1728 Avenida Coronel Diaz

Palermo, Buenos Aires

2055 10 April 1943

With his shotgun leaning on the paneled wall behind him, Enrico had been half dozing in an oversize dark-red leather armchair in the foyer. He almost jumped to his feet when Clete came off the elevator.

"I suppose you're going with me?" Clete asked.

Clete was now wearing a glen plaid suit, a stiffly starched white shirt, a somewhat somber tie, and wing-tip shoes. Khakis, boots, and a sweater were not the proper uniform to meet the head of the FBI in Buenos Aires—if only to politely tell him to go fuck himself.

"Where are we going?"

"To the Cafe Colon, near the opera."

"I will drive you."

"I'll drive myself, thank you," Clete said. "I am a big boy. I can even tie my own shoes."

The brilliant wit sailed over Enrico's head.

"I will go with you, of course," he said.

They went to the basement garage through the kitchen. The keys to the Buick were in the ignition, and it started immediately. But as Clete was about to put it in gear, Enrico touched his arm and opened the glove compartment and pointed.

The garage was dimly lit, and it took Clete a moment to recognize that Enrico was pointing at a .45 pistol.

It's an Argentine copy, not a Colt 1911Al,he thought. But essentially the same gun.

"OK, Enrico," he said. "Gracias."

Enrico closed the glove compartment, and Clete put the car in gear and drove out of the garage and headed downtown.

Avenida 9 de Julio, which dead-ends at Avenida del Libertador at the tracks leading to the main railroad station, is one of the widest streets in the world. Like Libertador, it commemorates Argentine Independence. While he was in Washington Clete couldn't help comparing that city to Buenos Aires. Libertador was something like Constitution Avenue, he concluded. But Washington didn't have a main avenue called The Fourth of July. He wondered why not.

There was another difference, too. Washington was "browned out." This meant that signs were not illuminated, that the lights which in peacetime shone on government buildings were no longer turned on at dusk, and that by law the top half of automobile headlights were painted over.

Theoretically, this was to deny German submarines reflected light that would allow them to more easily torpedo ships in the Atlantic. There was even a hint that it was a protective measure against German bombers attacking the nation's capital.

These measures might have made some sense in New York City, or Miami, but Washington was too far from the ocean for its night lighting to be seen there. In other words, he concluded, it was a propaganda action, to remind the American people they were at war. This also explained the Air Raid Wardens and the patriotic citizens who spent their nights on building roofs prepared to call the alarm when the first German bomber was sighted.

The lights were on on Avenida 9 de Julio, and the huge advertising signs mounted on the buildings lining both sides of the street were brilliantly illuminated.

So far as he could tell, they had not been followed from the house.

He found both the Teatro Colon and a place to park the Buick without trouble, but they had to circle the theater—which occupies most of a city block— before he found the Cafe Colon, a not very impressive establishment literally in the shadow of the opera building.

Tony had said Leibermann would be in the basement, so he looked for and finally found a narrow curving stairway leading downward. There were perhaps twenty tables in the dimly lit room, half of them occupied.

He looked around the room. At a table halfway across it, a plump, rather dowdy-looking bespectacled man made an "over here" gesture with his hand, and Clete walked to the table. Clete signaled for Enrico to sit at another empty table. Without rising, the man put out his hand and said, in perfect Spanish, "Dr. Livingston, I presume?"

"And you must be Se?or Stanley," Clete said. "How nice to see you here in the heart of darkest Argentina."

Leibermann laughed. "Thank you for coming. I wasn't sure you would. I was sorry to hear about your father."

"Thank you," Clete said, somewhat abruptly. "I'm not sure I should have come. What's on your mind?"

A waiter appeared. Clete ordered a beer, and Leibermann pointed at his wineglass to order another.

Leibermann handed him a small black-and-white photograph. It showed a young, small but well-muscled young man in a skivvy shirt and cutoff utilities. He was posing ferociously with a Thompson submachine gun in one hand and a K-bar knife in the other.

"My son," Leibermann said. "Sidney. Corporal, First Raider Battalion, U.S. Marine Corps."

"Nice-looking young man," Clete said.

"I had a very nice letter from a lieutenant colonel named Merritt Edson," Leibermann said evenly. "He said that he felt privileged to have commanded such a fine young man; that he had been proud to recommend him for a Silver Star; and that his grave site has been very carefully marked, so that when the battle for Guadalcanal is over, they can recover his remains."

"I'm sorry," Clete said.

"I have the letter with me. Would you care to see it?"

God, no, I don't want to see it!

Leibermann handed him the letter. Clete read it and handed it back.

"The point I'm trying to make, Major Frade, is that you and I—if not everybody in the OSS and the FBI—are on the same side in this war."

"It's not Major anymore. I've been discharged from the Marine Corps," Clete said, and waited for Leibermann to go on.

"I heard about that," Leibermann said, making it clear he didn't believe it. "But what is it they say, 'Once a Marine, always a Marine'? I didn't hear that you're out of the OSS, and this conversation will go easier if we don't waste time bullshitting each other."

Clete nodded.

There's something about this guy that I like. And I don't think that it's because his son got blown away on Guadalcanal.

"My orders—nothing written, of course," Leibermann said, "but I know an order when I get one—are that I am to have to have as little contact with the OSS as possible. That goes for the people who work for me, as well."

"I've got the same kind of orders," Clete said.

"Let me give you a little background on me—unless you already have it?"

"I never heard your name until a couple of hours ago," Clete said.

"I'm from New York. I have a BS in accounting from the City College of New York. When I graduated, took the exam, got certified, there was not much of a demand for CPAs, especially Jewish ones. But the FBI was accepting applications for CPAs—in those days, you had to be either a lawyer or a CPA to get in the FBI—and there wasn't much they could do to keep me out. I was Phi Beta Kappa at CCNY."

"What do you mean, 'keep you out'?"

"There's a couple of jokes about Jews in the FBI. One: There are so few of us that we can hold our convention in a phone booth. And the second: The last time we had a convention, we voted to petition J. Edgar Hoover to treat us the way Hitler treats the Jews in Germany, as it would be an improvement."

The waiter delivered the wine and beer. Leibermann raised his glass to Clete and took a very small sip.

"OK. So I got in, surprised everybody by making it through agent's school, and got myself assigned to the Manhattan Field Office. I went to work as an accountant. I was happy—I never saw myself as a Jewish Elliott Ness—and the FBI was happy, because I am a good accountant. When I caught people manipulating their books, they usually went to jail. Twice a year I shot my pistol, and then put it away in a drawer. You getting the picture?"

"I suppose," Clete said.

"After 1940, the FBI became really involved in South America. I hear they're recruiting Latins now, but in the old days there were about as many Spanish-speaking FBI agents as there were Jews. Anyway, they ran everybody's records and came up with the fact that Leibermann, Milton, spoke a little Spanish—"

"Your Spanish is pretty good," Clete interrupted.

"I took it for three years at CCNY, but most of what I have I picked up in Spanish Harlem. My father had a dry-cleaning store on 119th Street. Your Spanish is pretty good, too."

"I got mine from a Mexican lady who kept house for us in Midland, Texas," Clete said.

"Surprising. You could pass for an Argentine," Leibermann said. "Anyway, I got a form letter telling me I was being considered for a foreign assignment. I figured that would happen the next time it snowed in Miami on the Fourth of July, and didn't pay any attention to it."

"I don't understand," Clete confessed.

"Quote, legal Attach?, unquote, jobs in places like Buenos Aires usually went—still do—to nice young WASPs from Princeton, nice Mormon boys from Brigham Young, and once in a while, maybe even an Irisher from Notre Dame, but almost never to Jewish accountants from CCNY."

"You're here," Clete argued.

"The SAC here . . . You know what I mean?"

Clete shook his head, "no."

"The Special Agent in Charge. The Argentines caught him doing something he shouldn't have been doing and persona non grata-ed him. Their BIS . . . You know what that means, of course?"

Clete nodded.

". . . is pretty good," Leibermann went on. "OK, so they made the ASAC, which means Assistant Special Agent in Charge, the SAC. He fired off a cable saying he absolutely had to have a Spanish-speaking ASAC as of yesterday. Scraping the bottom of the barrel, guess who they send down here as ASAC?"

"Leibermann, Milton," Clete said, chuckling.

"Right. I was here two weeks when guess who else got himself persona non grata-ed?"

"The SAC?" Clete said, chuckling again.

"And to make it three in a row, can you guess who they made, temporarily, the new SAC?"

"His last name begins with L?"

"Right. I figured that would last for as long as it would take to get a real SAC on the Panagra flight out of Miami, but that didn't happen. I don't know why. Nobody ever came down to replace me, and about six months ago, about the time you came down here the first time, they made the appointment official."

"Maybe somebody decided you're doing a good job," Clete said.

"I try. I figure that the FBI is supposed to be down here developing information, not, for example, blowing up boats and things like that."

"People blow up ships down here, do they?"

"So the story goes. A lot of people—Colonel Mart?n of the BIS, for example—think that the OSS is down here to do things like that. . . things that violate Argentine neutrality."

"I've met el Teniente Coronel Martin," Clete said. "He has a suspicious nature."

"He's a nice fellow," Leibermann said. "We have an understanding. I make sure the FBI doesn't go around trying to blow ships up, and we tell each other things. Like, he called me the night you shot the, quote, burglars, unquote, in your house on Libertador."

"That was nice of him."

"And when somebody blew up that Portuguese ship—what was it called?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Clete said.

"The Reine de la Mer" Leibermann said. "It was called the Reine de la Mer I called him and gave him my word I had no idea that was going to happen."

"Why should you?"

"Right. I shouldn't. I didn't. And if anything like that happens again, I don't want to know about that either."

"That shouldn't be any problem for either of us," Clete said.

"It's turned into a pretty good relationship, Mart?n and me. We tell each other interesting things all the time."

"For example?"

"For example, just today he told me that there was a very interesting passenger on the Lufthansa flight. A man named Goltz. He's a Standartenf?hrer— that's like a colonel—in the German SS."

"How interesting."

"It was to me. What's an SS colonel doing in Argentina?"

"I have no idea."

"If you hear, would you let me know?" Leibermann asked. '"What I'm suggesting is that we, you and me, have the same sort of arrangement 1 have with Teniente Coronel Martin. I hear something interesting, I'll pass it on to you, unofficially, of course. And vice versa—you hear something interesting, you pass it to me unofficially."

"If I ever hear something interesting, you'll be the first to know," Clete said. "Unofficially, of course."

"Like, for example, what goes on at the G.O.U. convention this weekend."

"The G.O.U. convention? I have no idea what you're talking about," Clete said.

"At Estancia Santo Catalina," Leibermann said. "They're going to sit around, drink a little vino, cook some steaks, sing, maybe do a little dance around a sombrero"—he snapped his fingers—"and when they can find a couple of minutes, decide who's going to be the next President of Argentina, now that your father's no longer available, and maybe even decide when to give Castillo the boot. You can understand why I'd like to hear anything you happen to pick up."

"I didn't hear about any convention," Clete said. "And, if there is going to be one, I didn't get invited."

"Just so you don't think I'm as dumb as I look," Leibermann said, "one of the colonels who'll be there is a tall drink of water named Juan Domingo Per?n. He was a real close pal of your father's. He came back from Germany yesterday on the same plane with the SS colonel. There are a lot of people, including me, who think the sonofabitch is a real Nazi. And I would like to know—the U.S. government would like to know—the role the Nazi sonofabitch is playing in the coup d’?tat, and the role he will play in the new government if your father's cronies get away with it. Any information you could pass on to me would be greatly appreciated."

He took out his wallet and handed Clete a card with three numbers written on it.

"My office, my apartment, and a number that's answered twenty-four hours a day. Your code name is 'Cowboy' if you don't want to use your real name."

"'Cowboy'?"

"Cowboy," Leibermann confirmed. "Did they teach you in OSS school that the best way to handle numbers like that is memorize them and then burn the little piece of paper?"

"I didn't go to OSS school," Clete said.

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Leibermann said wryly, then suddenly stood up. A broad smile appeared on his face, and he put out his hand.

"Well, it's been a real pleasure meeting you, Se?or Frade," he said, raising his voice so it could be heard all over the room. "Welcome back to Argentina!"

He pumped Clete's hand enthusiastically, then walked toward the stairwell.

[TWO]

Bureau of Internal Security

Ministry of Defense

Edificio Libertador Avenida

Paseo Colon

Buenos Aires, Argentina

0915 11 April 1943

The Chief of the Bureau of Internal Security of the Ministry of National Defense, el Almirante Francisco de Montoya, liked to gaze out of the window of his ninth-floor office. His office windows looked out over the River Plate. On a clear day, one could just make out the coast of Uruguay, near Colonia del Sacramento, across the river.

The Admiral was especially fond of peering out the window at the ships on the river through a high-powered, tripod-mounted binocular, a gift from Captain Sir Bernard Jules-Wiley, Royal Navy, the British Naval Attach?. Montoya had once joked to el Teniente Coronel Alejandro Bernardo Martin, of whom he was both fond and a little afraid, that if only his office windows looked back toward the city, instead of out over the Plate, he could probably peer into high-rise apartment windows and see some of Buenos Aires's most lovely ladies in their unmentionables, or less.

The Admiral, resting his buttocks on his desk, was peering through his Royal Navy binoculars when Mart?n put his head through the door.

"You sent for me, Sir?"

It was unusual for Montoya to send for him, and that made Mart?n a little nervous. Normally, Montoya was satisfied with a briefing by Mart?n whenever he had interesting information to report. Summoning him to his office happened only rarely, usually only when Montoya had a specific question he wanted answered, or even more rarely, when he himself came up with something that he thought Mart?n should know.

What concerned Mart?n now was that Montoya might somehow have learned of the existence ofOutline Blue. On the one hand, this knowledge would make him look like an incompetent for not discovering it himself. On the other hand, it would put in question—with every justification in the world—his loyalty.

Even worse, it was possible that Montoya had learned not only of the existence ofOutline Blue, but thatOutline Blue was missing, and in considerable risk of falling into the hands of President Castillo's supporters.

Mart?n had worked for Almirante Montoya long enough to have a very good idea how his mind worked. He did not have a great deal of respect for Montoya's intelligence. Indeed, he was sometimes capable of demonstrating great stupidity. And yet—like many other senior officers and officials Martin had come to know who were not generously endowed by their maker with brainpower—he frequently demonstrated almost astonishing cunning.

This should not have been surprising—one could not rise to the rank of Almirante without being either highly intelligent or unusually cunning—but in fact it was.

Mart?n knew Montoya had not made up his mind whether the planned coup d’?tat would succeed or not. If it succeeded, he wanted to be able to truthfully state that although he could not, of course, have openly supported Frade, Ramirez, Rawson, or any of the others, he had lent what support he could to their noble cause. For example, he had ordered Teniente Coronel Mart?n not to place any of them under surveillance.

If the coup d’?tat failed, he wanted to be in a position to truthfully state that he had ordered Teniente Coronel Mart?n to immediately bring to his attention any evidence whatever suggesting that Frade, Ramirez, or Rawson, or anyone else, was planning a treasonous coup d’?tat.

The only way he could accomplish this dance was not to ask Mart?n too many questions. He really did not want to know, Mart?n understood, that the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos had come up with a plan—Outline Blue—for their coup. Rather, he wanted Mart?n to approach him and tell him that there was going to be a coup d’?tat and whether it was going to fail or succeed.

At that point, he could take action.

Mart?n had not, therefore, informed Almirante Montoya that the plan forOutline Blue existed, or that it was missing and liable to wind up on President Castillo's desk. If he had, that information would almost certainly have been enough to cause Montoya to come down on the side of the present regime.

And finally, if Castillo did know aboutOutline Blue, and it succeeded even so, Montoya could reasonably argue that under the circumstances he had no choice but to do his duty. And yet in order to assist the coup d’?tat, he held off doing it as long as he possibly could.

"Ah, Bernardo," the Admiral said. "We don't often see you in uniform."

"I wear it from time to time, mi Almirante, to remind myself that I was once an honest cavalryman."

While that was quite true, it was not the actual reason he was wearing his uniform this morning. He was bound for El Palomar airfield—in fact, if Montoya hadn't sent for him, he would already be halfway there—where a light army airplane from Campo de Mayo ( The huge Argentine military complex just outside Buenos Aires. In 1943, Campo de Mayo held a Cavalry Regiment, an Infantry Regiment, and Engineer Battalion, the School for Equitation, the Artillery School, the Military Prison, a number of support units, plus the campus of the Military Academy and the buildings and airfields of what was later to become the Argentine Air Force.) was to pick him up. Questions would almost certainly be asked by some diligent official at El Palomar if an Army airplane picked up a civilian, and Mart?n preferred not to call any more attention to himself than was absolutely necessary.

Today, in particular. Though his credentials gave him unquestioned access to any Argentine military base or government-controlled facility, authority to requisition any personnel or equipment he felt necessary to accomplish his duties, and almost incidentally authorized him to wear mufti on duty, they also stated that any questions concerning his activities should be directed to the personal attention of el Almirante Francisco de Montoya. He didn't want Montoya to know where he was going, or why.

"You don't think you are anymore?" Montoya challenged jokingly.

"An honest cavalryman, mi Almirante, does not begin his days by asking ladies of the evening the preferences of their last night's patrons."

"Did you really?"

"The agent who was supposed to deal with gathering this information fell ill, and I thought it best not to wait until he recovered."

"And who were the patrons of the ladies?"

"Gradny-Sawz and the visiting German coronel."

"Oddly enough, I called you in here to ask about him. Who is he, and what is he doing here?"

"I don't know much, only that he and Gradny-Sawz are old friends; that Gradny-Sawz moved him out of the Alvear and into his house; and that according to the ladies, both of them were perfect gentlemen."

"Really?"

"There was champagne, and dancing to phonograph records. Later, Gradny-Sawz's houseman put them into a taxi, generously compensated for their labors."

"And the ladies heard nothing of interest?"

"They were told that Vienna is the most romantic city in the world. Apparently, Goltz and Gradny-Sawz knew each other there."

"How odd."

"Frankly, I was relieved. I find it distasteful to compile dossiers about strange sexual preferences."

"Distasteful, but sometimes very useful."

"I find using such information even more distasteful," Mart?n said.

"Has it ever occurred to you, Bernardo, that you might be in the wrong line of work?"

"Many times, mi Almirante. The last time as recently as two minutes ago."

"Unfortunately, Bernardo, you are very good at what you do. Anything on young Frade?"

By God, hedoesn't know aboutOutline Blue. Or that it's missing. If he did, the subject would be on the table by now!

"He met with Leibermann at the Cafe Colon. He went there alone—except of course, for Suboficial Mayor Rodriguez. The agent on him said he skillfully eluded him in traffic—I'm not sure I believe that or not. But, anyway, the man on Leibermann picked up on him and telephoned the office to tell the other one where he could be found."

"And their conversation?"

"Nothing could be heard. They were together less than half an hour, and then parted. Leibermann went to his home, and so did young Frade."

"In your mind, does this meeting between the head of the American FBI and Se?or Frade confirm that Frade is back here as OSS Station Chief?"

"Leibermann tells me that the new Naval Attach? is the new OSS Station Chief. His name is Delojo, Commander Delojo, and he arrived yesterday. When I asked Leibermann the relationship between Frade and Delojo, he shrugged his shoulders."

"Meaning he doesn't know, or doesn't want to tell you?"

Mart?n chuckled. "Meaning he either doesn't want to tell me, or doesn't really know."

"You trust Leibermann, don't you?"

"He has never lied to me."

"We can presume, I think, that Frade still has some connection with the OSS."

Yes, and we can presume that the sun will probably come up again tomorrow, and that winter will follow fall again. God, did he really have to think about that?

"Yes, mi Almirante. But whether he takes his orders from this man Delojo, or vice versa, is still a question. Leibermann says Delojo is an experienced Naval intelligence officer. I would like to think he has been sent here to control Frade, but I'm always afraid of what seems to be the obvious answer."

Montoya grunted, and shrugged.

"I really would like to know what the German coronel is up to."

Don't you think I know that?

"It's entirely possible that it is a routine visit. On the other hand, if it is not precisely a routine visit, then it probably has something to do with German plans to send a replacement for the Reine de la Mer."

"You have an opinion?"

"That was it, mi Almirante."

"Anything else?"

"El Coronel Juan Domingo Per?n will join General Rawson and some of the others at Estancia Santo Catalina this weekend."

"To console Se?ora Carzino-Cormano, presumably?" Montoya said.

"There will be a requiem mass for el Coronel Frade at the Chapel on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo," Mart?n said. "She has naturally been invited, and so have a number of her—and el Coronel's—old and close friends."

"Argentina will miss Jorge Guillermo Frade, and so will I," Montoya said, then: "How did you come by Per?n's weekend plans?"

"He is staying at the Frade guest house on Libertador. Capitan Lauffer telephoned him there last night to ask for a convenient time for General Rawson to pick him up this morning. Since I knew that General Rawson—"

"I thought I suggested, and you agreed, that there would be no telephone surveillance of either General Ramirez or General Rawson?"

"The line surveilled, mi Almirante, is the line in the Frade guest house. I installed it in the belief that young Frade might return to Argentina, as indeed he has."

Montoya appeared to be giving the situation some thought. And then, when he spoke a few moments later, he moved to another subject.

"Now that Per?n has returned from Germany, it could mean they are prepared to act."

"Yes, it could."

"But you don't think so, Bernardo?"

"I have not formed an opinion."

"Even if we can't break their code, I think it might be interesting to see if there is an increase in transmissions from the American radio station on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo during or immediately after this weekend."

"I have ordered round-the-clock monitoring of the frequencies they are using, mi Almirante."

"The big question, Bernardo, isn't it, is how much contact there has been between the G.O.U. and the norteamericanos. If any. If there is a sudden increase in radio traffic . . ."

"I take your point, mi Almirante."

"Keep me advised, Bernardo," Montoya said. "About this, and about this German coronel."

"Of course, mi Almirante."

"Thank you, Bernardo. That will be all."

He doesn'tknow anything. I don't think he's even heard anything. But that damned cunning again — it's animal-like— hesenses that something important is going on.

[THREE]

The Embassy of the German Reich

Avenida Cordoba

Buenos Aires, Argentina

0320 11 April 1943

As he came into the Ambassador's office, Standartenf?hrer Josef Goltz raised his right arm from the elbow, palm outward, in a casual Nazi salute.

"I very much appreciate your finding time for me on the weekend, Herr-Ambassador," he said.

"I am at your service, Herr Standartenf?hrer," Ambassador Manfred Alois Graf von Lutzenberger replied. He neither rose from his seat nor returned the salute. Instead he offered his hand, then waved Goltz into a chair.

"May I request that First Secretary Gradny-Sawz and Oberst Gr?ner join us?" Goltz asked.

Von Lutzenberger picked up his telephone.

"Will you ask Herr Gradny-Sawz and Oberst Gr?ner to come in, please?" he ordered. "And bring in a kleines fruhstiick for all of us, please?" (Kleines fruhstiick, "little breakfast": pastry and coffee.)

He smiled at Goltz.

"Gradny-Sawz has some difficulty with the Argentine version of the kleines fruhstiick," he said. "As a Viennese, he naturally believes Viennese pastry is the best in the world. More cream, more butter."

"And?"

"They make the same pastry here. Viennese make the same pastry here. Even the names in Spanish are the same. Except that if the Viennese recipe calls for six eggs, and two hundred grams of butter, here they use a dozen eggs and half a kilo of butter. It not only does terrible things to Gradny-Sawz's waistline, but causes him to question his most sacred belief in the superiority of all things Viennese."

Goltz smiled. "I knew Gradny-Sawz in Vienna," he said. "Before the Anschlusse."

"So I understand," von Lutzenberger said, and then, as the door opened, "Ah, here he is!"

Gradny-Sawz came into the room and gave a somewhat more correct Nazi salute than Goltz had done earlier.

"Heil Hitler!" he said. "Good morning, Herr Ambassador Graf."

Oberst Karl-Heinz Gr?ner, in civilian clothing, was on his heels. His only greeting was a curt bow of his head to the Ambassador.

"I've ordered coffee and some cake," von Lutzenberger said, neither acknowledging Gradny-Sawz's greeting nor returning his salute.

Gradny-Sawz then walked to a couch and settled himself comfortably on it. Gr?ner sat down beside him.

"Josef," Gradny-Sawz said, "you won't believe the pastry here. It's quite as good as in Vienna. Probably because it's made by Viennese."

Goltz and von Lutzenberger smiled at each other.

Von Lutzenberger's secretary, Fraulein Ingebord Hassell, wheeled in a cart loaded with pastries and a silver coffee service.

Gradny-Sawz looked it over without paying much notice to Fraulein Hassell. She was a middle-aged spinster who wore her graying hair drawn tight against her skull and gathered in a bun at the nape of her neck.

"And even Schlagobers"—whipped cream—he said. "It's almost like being in Vienna."

The secretary went to the Ambassador first and then to each of the others in turn and poured coffee, adding sugar and spoonfuls of Schlagobers as directed. Finally, after awaiting pointed finger instructions, she slid pastries on plates and served them.

"That will be all, Fraulein Hassell, thank you," von Lutzenberger said when she was finished, "and no interruptions of any kind, please."

Fraulein Hassell smiled tightly and left the room.

Goltz set his coffee cup down, stood up, and went to von Lutzenberger.

"The first question we Germans always ask is 'by whose authority?'" he said with a smile. "This is my authority, Herr Ambassador Graf."

He handed him the envelope he had received from Reichsleiter Mart?n Bormann at Wolf's Lair.

Von Lutzenberger opened the envelope, read the letter without any visible reaction, refolded it, replaced it in the envelope, and handed it back to Goltz.

"A remarkable document, Herr Standartenf?hrer," he said.

Goltz handed the envelope to Gr?ner.

Not to Gradny-Sawz,von Lutzenberger thought. Which means that Gradny-Sawz has already seen it.

"It should go without saying that what is said in this room goes no further," Goltz said.

"It's really a pity this is a secret document," Gr?ner said, handing it back to him. "With those signatures on it, it would bring a hell of a price from a dealer in signatures of the powerful."

"I'll keep it," Goltz said, "with that in mind, Herr Oberst. Perhaps after the war . . ."

There were polite chuckles. Gradny-Sawz's chuckle came a little after the Ambassador's.

"How may we assist you in your mission, Herr Standartenf?hrer?" von Lutzenberger asked.

"Let me give you a little of the background, if I may. Historical and philosophical." Goltz began. "The point to consider, to always keep in mind, is that we are all privileged to be participants in the early days of the Thousand Year Reich. The Thousand Year Reich. That's a long time. If I suddenly should travel through time toa.d. 2943— The Year of Our Lord'— I personally would not be surprised to find that the calendar was no longer calculated from the date of birth of a Hebrew carpenter in Palestine, but rather from 1933, the year the Fuhrer took power, and that I was now ina.h. 1000— 'The Year of Our F?hrer.'"

I really think this idiot believes what he's saying,von Lutzenberger thought. And there is really no one more dangerous than an idiot, a zealot, with power.

"With that thought in mind, that we are not dealing with years here, or with decades, or even with centuries, but with a millennium," Goltz said, "it has been necessary for our leaders—the disciples, if you like, of our Fuhrer—to think about matters most ordinary Germans would consider unthinkable."

"Why not?" Gradny-Sawz asked thoughtfully. "Why not start dating things from the time the Fuhrer assumed leadership?"

Why not?von Lutzenberger thought. After all, we already have, in Mein Kampf, ( *My Strugglewas written by Adolf Hitler while he was imprisoned in Landsburg Prison following the failed Munich coup d’?tat. It was in as many German homes as the Bible, and the royalties therefrom were the major source of Hitler's personal wealth, used, among other things, for building his mountain retreat at Berchtesgaden.) the New New Testament. The Gospel According to Adolf.

"I don't think the Herr Standartenf?hrer, Anton, has come all this way to discuss a possible revision of the calendar," von Lutzenberger said. "What unthinkable things, Herr Standartenf?hrer?"

"That brings us to history," Goltz said. "History all of us in this room are familiar with. The Armistice of 1918, and the Versailles Conference of 1919." (Under the Versailles Treaty of June 28, 1919. Germany lost 25,550 square miles of its land and 7 million of its citizens to Poland, France, and Czechoslovakia. Its major Baltic port, Danzig, became a "Free Port" administered by Poland. Most of the Rhineland was occupied by Allied troops. The Saar was given "temporarily" to France, and the Rhine, Oder, Memel, Danube, and Mosel rivers were internationalized. Austria was prohibited from any future union with Germany.

All German holdings abroad, including those of private German citizens, were confiscated. Almost the entire merchant fleet was expropriated. More than 140,000 dairy cows were shipped out of Germany as reparations, as well as heavy machinery and entire factories. And vast amounts of iron ore, coal, and even livestock were requisitioned by the Allies.

Billions of marks were assessed annually as reparations, and German colonies in Africa and elsewhere were seized by the League of Nations and then mandated to the various Allies, excluding the United States.)

"I don't think I'm quite following you, Standartenf?hrer," Gr?ner said.

"To put a point on it, let's think about the Armistice of, say, 1944, followed by the Washington Conference of 1945."

"Now I don't follow you, Herr Standartenf?hrer," von Lutzenberger said.

"Our leaders, the men who have given me this mission, had the duty to consider the unthinkable. An Armistice of 1944, not very different from the Armistice of 1918, followed by another conference like Versailles in 1919."

"You're not saying, are you," Gr?ner challenged, "that an Armistice of 1944 is a possibility?"

"Personally, of course not. I believe in the ultimate victory. What has had to be considered here is that if there should be an Armistice of 1944, it cannot— cannot —be followed by a repeat of the Versailles Conference of 1919."

"Frankly, Herr Standartenf?hrer," von Lutzenberger said indignantly, "if you had not come here cloaked in the authority of our leaders, I would consider such talk as dangerously approaching defeatism and perhaps even treason!"

I was expected to react that way, and I think I did so convincingly. What is this SS slime up to ?

"Herr Ambassador Graf," Gradny-Sawz said kindly. "I must tell you that until the Standartenf?hrer explained this to me, my reaction was very much like yours."

"I should hope so!" von Lutzenberger said.

"Let me try to put it this way, Graf von Lutzenberger," Goltz said. "Let us be realistic. The war has not been going entirely our way in recent times. And of course our leaders must deal with cold facts. Consequently—while by no means demeaning the courage and self-sacrifice of the Sixth Army at Stalingrad—the cold fact is that the Sixth Army, six hundred thousand men strong, was wiped out there."

"As I understand it, they did their soldier's duty to Germany to the end," Gr?ner said.

"Indeed. And it would be senseless to deny that the situation in Africa is grave; that Allied bombers are causing great damage to the Fatherland; and that the F?hrer has not been able to provide the next level of weaponry as quickly as he hoped. Let me digress by saying that I was privileged to witness, at Peenem?nde, ( German V-1 and V-2 rockets were developed at Peenem?nde under Wernher von Braun.) the testing of weapons I believe will not only sweep Allied aircraft from the skies but bring England to its knees. To our conference table, if you like, begging for our terms for an armistice,"

And somewhere in the Bavarian Alps,von Lutzenberger thought, there is a pig who really can whistle the Blue Danube Waltz.

"Really?" Gr?ner asked.

"Rockets, Herr Oberst, traveling at near the speed of sound," Goltz said. "And there are other weapons, propellerless aircraft, for example, faster than anything now flying. And we have under development new tanks—a whole arsenal of weapons—I feel sure will change the tide. But the point is that these weapons may not be available in time. Our leaders have had the duty to consider the unpleasant alternatives. Which, if I may, brings us back to the Armistice of 1944."

"I have faith in the F?hrer," Gradny-Sawz said.

"We all do," Goltz said, an impatient tone in his voice. "But pray let me continue. Considering the impossible: Let us say, hypothetically, that in 1944 the F?hrer decides that seeking an armistice is best for Germany."

"The British, Americans, and Russians at Casablanca called for our unconditional surrender," von Lutzenberger said.

"Rhetoric. If we offer an armistice, they will jump at it." Goltz said. "But the postwar conference following an Armistice of 1944 will be far worse for Germany than the Versailles Conference. Roosevelt is owned by the Jews. His Secretary of the Treasury, Morgenthau, is a Jew. England's not much better, and France, as we all know, is far worse. And Russia!"

"Then we should not seek an armistice!" Gradny-Sawz said firmly.

"Here our leaders have been looking at the longer time frame, the millennium of the Thousand Year Reich," Goltz said. "It is possible—I don't say likely, I say possible —that the F?hrer may decide that a few years of German humiliation now is a price that has to be paid to ensure that the Thousand Year Reich triumphs in the end."

"May I ask, Herr Standartenf?hrer, what this has to do with Argentina?" von Lutzenberger asked.

"That will be self-evident in a moment, Graf von Lutzenberger," Goltz said. "Let us say there is an Armistice of 1944, with a postwar conference following. Almost certainly, the Allies would insist on occupying all of Germany, not just the Rhineland, as they did after World War One. What's left of Germany, that is. We could expect to lose more of our territories this time than we did in 1920. The Russians will steal anything and everything they can lay their hands on. The Americans and the French and the English will debase our currency, and otherwise ruin our economy. Our technology will be stolen. Conditions in Germany will be twice, three times, ten times as bad as they were after World War One."

"It's difficult to imagine anything so terrible for Germany!" Gradny-Sawz said, horrified.

Well, that's the first thing you've said that I agree with,von Lutzenberger thought. But that's what will happen. We brought this war on ourselves, and now we have to pay for it.

"But after a few years," Goltz went on, "the Allies will tire of the expense of occupying Germany. And, having stolen all they can from us, they will know we can't pay for the expense of keeping their soldiers on our soil."

"And what will happen then?" von Lutzenberger asked evenly.

"They will leave Germany," Goltz said. "Convinced that they have stripped us to the bone."

And are you now going to tell us how Adolf will turn this defeat into victory?

"Now," Goltz said, as if he were lecturing to children, "let us suppose that there was a sanctuary, a safe place, where not only large amounts of money but German technology, even German leaders, could be moved, secretly, before the Armistice of 1944."

Why am I surprised? I should be surprised that it took them this long to think of what we've already been doing for six months, moving real money out of Germany so that it can be sent back to salvage what can be salvaged from the ashes.

"You mean here?" von Lutzenberger asked evenly.

"Yes, of course here," Goltz said.

"Have our leaders come up with a means to do this?"

"The primary concern is for secrecy," Goltz said. "If there is an Armistice of 1944, there can be no trail left for the Allies to discover."

"A trail of money, you mean?" Gr?ner asked.

"In addition to other things," Goltz said.

"You're thinking of secret bank accounts in Switzerland?" Gr?ner asked.

"Switzerland is a nation of bankers," Goltz replied. "Banks are controlled by Jews. They have no secrets from each other. And with Germany on its back, funds in Swiss banks would be no safer than funds in the Dresdenerbank."

"You think the banks here would be any different?" von Lutzenberger asked.

"If they were unaware of the source of the funds, they would be," Goltz said. "These funds would not be secret funds. They would be in the hands of Argentine citizens, indistinguishable from any other funds on deposit by Argentine citizens."

Which is exactly what Duarte and I have been doing with von Wachtstein's money. Why should I be surprised that someone else has figured this out?

"I just arrived, of course," Goltz said. "But already I have met—your driver, Oberst Gr?ner—a good German, a good National Socialist, who happens to hold Argentinian citizenship. I mention this just to start your thinking. What if—what's that boy's name?"

"Loche, Herr Standartenf?hrer," Gr?ner furnished. "G?nther Loche."

"What if the Loche family's sausage business started to prosper? Began to increase their bank deposits, opened other bank accounts, acquired farm property in the country? Who would be suspicious?"

"I see what you mean," Gr?ner said.

"But there would be records in Germany," von Lutzenberger argued. "We're obviously talking about very large sums of money here."

"In the immediate future, approximately one hundred million U.S. dollars," Goltz announced, paused, and went on, "of which, I assure you, Graf von Lutzenberger, there is no record anywhere."

I think he means that figure. But one hundred million dollars, with no record? Where did they find that much money? With no record of it?

"In addition to that, there is something like twenty million U.S. dollars now in Uruguay," Goltz said, "which will have to be incorporated in our arrangements here."

What the hell is he talking about?

"Twenty million in Uruguay?" von Lutzenberger asked.

"I'll come to that in due time, Graf von Lutzenberger," Goltz said. "Our immediate problem is the reception of the one hundred million, and providing safe and very secret storage for it once it enters the country. Until it can be disbursed and invested."

My God, he's talking about money stolen from the Jews! There is no other place that much money could have come from!

"The money will be brought in by diplomatic pouch?" he asked. "I have to tell you, Herr Standartenf?hrer, that I consider that a great risk."

"The funds are aboard the Comerciante del Oceano Pacifico, a Spanish-registered vessel already on the high seas," Goltz replied.

"Forgive me, Herr Standartenf?hrer," Gr?ner said. "But there's a trail. There will be manifests. . . ."

"The Pacifico's ostensible mission—obviously a well-guarded secret itself—is to replace the Reine de la Mer," Goltz said. "The last-minute addition of half a dozen more crates of engine and radio parts to her cargo, taken aboard under the personal supervision of her captain, caused no raised eyebrows at all."

"I wondered what they would do about replacing the Reine de la Mer," von Lutzenberger said.

"When the Pacifico is on station in the Bay of Samboromb?n," Goltz went on, "I will board her. Her captain has been told that someone will present special orders to him when he arrives. When the crates are placed in my custody, that will be the end of the trail."

"Six crates, you said?" Gr?ner asked. "Full of money?"

"Six crates, Herr Oberst, containing engine and radio parts, and the special funds. They are not all in the form of currency. There is gold, and gemstones, and even some negotiable securities. All of which, of course, will have to be converted into cash here."

"I see," Gr?ner said.

If there is gold,von Lutzenberger thought, it came from the dental work and wedding rings of murdered Jews; and the gemstones from the fingers and necks of murdered Jewish women.

Does this slime really believe this Thousand Year Reich rising phoenixlike from the ashes of Berlin nonsense, or is he simply a criminal?

"At the time I remove the crates from the Oceano Pacifico, I will confide in her captain that they contain weapons and other materiel necessary for the accomplishment of my mission here," Goltz said.

"Excuse me?" von Lutzenberger said.

Goltz smiled at him smugly.

"Which mission—personally authorized by the F?hrer—is to free and return to Germany the interned officers from the Graf Spee. As you know, this is also of personal interest to Admiral Canaris. And when we do in fact deliver, say, twenty Graf Spee officers to the Oceano Pacifico, for subsequent transfer to a submarine, that should remove any lingering curiosity the captain might have about the six crates."

"Very clever," Gr?ner said.

" 'Brilliant' is the word, my dear Gr?ner," Gradny-Sawz said.

"I presume the implications of taking the Graf Spee officers from their place of internment has been considered," von Lutzenberger said. "The Argentines will be offended."

"We presume, of course, Graf von Lutzenberger, that the Argentines will make a pro forma fuss about it. That will be fine. First, it will further obfuscate my—our—primary mission. Second, their protests should create nothing extraordinary for you to deal with, Herr Ambassador. And after a week or two, I think they will rather admire our audacity."

"I'm not so sure about that," von Lutzenberger said. "About it being easy to deal with. When the word spreads that the Graf Spee officers have broken their parole—and there is no way we can keep that out of the newspapers—no matter what his personal feelings on the subject, President Castillo will feel compelled to do more than register a pro forma complaint. And if the coup d’?tat planned by the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos succeeds—and in my judgment, it will—the escape of the Graf Spee officers could very well be the excuse the new President needs to radically alter the status quo. Perhaps to go so far as to recall their ambassador to Berlin. And conceivably, even to seek a declaration of war."

"The ramifications of Argentine indignation, Graf von Lutzenberger, have been considered at the highest level, and it was decided it was the price that had to be paid," Goltz said. "Frankly, I think you are overly concerned. For instance, when I spoke with Oberst Gr?ner about the Frade assassination, he told me he felt the Argentine officer corps would deeply resent that."

"I shared that opinion," von Lutzenberger said.

"Yesterday, I sensed no resentment at all," Goltz said. "Either at the Edificio Libertador, or even at the Duarte house. My God, Frade's sister even invited von Wachtstein to that private funeral service!"

Beatrice Frade de Duarte,von Lutzenberger thought, is quite mad. Even more insane than Herr Hitler.

Neither he nor Gr?ner replied.

"Vis-a-vis Oberst Frade," Goltz went on, "I am convinced that there is an understanding on the part of the Argentine military that we did what had to be done, and, more important, that our audacity in the matter is respected. And vis-a-vis the repatriation of the Graf Spee officers, I feel that the same thing will happen. Do you disagree, Graf von Lutzenberger?"

"There probably is something to what you say," von Lutzenberger said. "I would suggest the resentment from Frade's close friends will be the greater problem . . ."

"It will pass," Goltz said firmly.

". . . we are going to have to deal with," von Lutzenberger went on, "magnified, of course, if one of his friends, General Rawson, for example, became President of Argentina. Do I correctly infer from your orders, Herr Standartenf?hrer, that I am forbidden to ask for reconsideration of the plan to break the interned officers out?" von Lutzenberger said.

"You and I, Graf von Lutzenberger, are forbidden to do anything about our orders but carry them out."

"The highest priority, as I understand it, is to move these funds ashore?" Gr?ner asked.

Ah, the military mind,von Lutzenberger thought. When you receive an order, you start to plan to carry it out. Never consider the morality; that is a question for your betters.

"Safelyashore," Goltz said.

"Then the major problem, in my opinion, would be to find some absolutely secure place to store these funds once they are ashore. Taking them off the ship will be a relatively simple matter. Perhaps it would be better to attempt to find two, or three, or even six places to store the material. So that, in case one location is detected, all would not be lost—"

"Herr Oberst," Goltz interrupted. "I appreciate your enthusiasm. But I think we all need now to take some time—twenty-four hours, perhaps even forty-eight—to think all of this over. Afterward, we shall meet again, and discuss specifics. I caution you to discuss any of this with no one not present here." He paused. "Unless there is someone?"

"I was thinking of Major von Wachtstein," Gr?ner said. "I think we will need him. For one thing, he is very friendly with the man who runs the Anglo-Argentine bank. For another, his Spanish is impeccable."

"Can he be trusted?" Goltz asked.

"I would say so, Josef," Gradny-Sawz said. "He is a fine young officer of an old Pomeranian family. He received the Knights Cross of the Iron Cross from the hands of the F?hrer himself."

"Graf von Lutzenberger?"

"He is a trustworthy officer," von Lutzenberger said. "And I agree with Gr?ner. I'm sure we'll need him, if we're to be involved in a matter of this kind. He flies our Storch, and I can see where—"

"All right, then," Goltz cut him off. "You may bring him into this, Graf von Lutzenberger."

"I don't mean to challenge your authority in any way, but I would suggest that Oberst Gr?ner deal with Major von Wachtstein. For one thing, they are both soldiers."

That distances me from Peter, and if he learns anything from Gr?ner, he'll tell me.

"Yes, perhaps it would be best if he did," Goltz said. He stood up.

"Thank you for your time, gentlemen," he said. "Have a pleasant weekend. I will look forward to hearing your further thoughts on this operation on Monday." And then he thought of something else: "Your secretary, Graf von Lutzenberger?"

"A reliable woman. A good National Socialist."

"We'll need someone to keep records, of course, but someone who is absolutely trustworthy."

"Fraulein Hassell is reliable," Gr?ner said.

"Well, then, we seem to have taken the first step in carrying out our orders, haven't we? We have chosen the members of our team," Goltz said. "Anton is going to give me a tour of the city."

He walked to and opened the door.

"Ready, Anton?"

"At your service, Josef," Gradny-Sawz said.

"Oh, one more thing," Goltz said, closing the door. "I made contact over the weekend with one of our agents here. He tells me that one of the OSS agents has been asking dangerous questions—the Jew, his name is Ettinger—" He interrupted himself to look at Gr?ner. "Not one of your agents, Herr Oberst. A special agent reporting directly to Reichsprotektor Himmler. His identity must remain a secret."

"I understand, Herr Standartenf?hrer," Gr?ner said. "Should I know, however, the nature of the dangerous questions?"

"In due time, Herr Oberst. Not now. For now, with great care, but as quickly as possible, I want you to eliminate Herr Ettinger. What do you know about him?"

"He's a Spanish Jew, whose family had a branch in Berlin. He and his mother left Germany and went to the United States, where he was apparently recruited by the OSS. He came here under cover, as some sort of an oil-storage-terminal expert in the employ of Howell Petroleum. After the Reine de la Mer incident, when Frade and the other agent returned to the United States, he remained here. He has an apartment—4B—at Calle Monroe 127. .. ."

"Well, then, since you know so much about him, eliminating him shouldn't be much of a problem, should it?"

"Would the Herr Standartenf?hrer like to review my plans when I have made them?"

"Yes. And I'm glad you brought that up. From now on I wish to review any plans for this sort of thing."

"Jawohl, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

Goltz opened the door again and passed through it.

PART TWO

Brunner Still at Large

Paris

French police said yesterday that they hunted in vain in Argentina for Alois Brunner, the most notorious Nazi war criminal still at large, after tips he had left his longtime refuge in Syria.

"He's not there, at least we didn't see him," said Gerard Bronne, head of the manhunt section of the Paris Gendarmerie after his trip to a remote region of northern Argentina near the borders of Paraguay and Brazil last month.

He told French television TF-1 he had tried to follow up reports from neighboring Uruguay that Brunner, now 83, had settled in Argentina along with other Nazi war criminals wanted by the international police agency Interpol.

Brunner, WWII deputy to fellow Austrian Adolph Eichmann, is wanted in connection with the deaths of 130,000 Jews whom he had deported to death camps during World War II (Reuters).

Page 1

The Buenos Aires Herald, Buenos Aires, Argentina

August 3, 1995

Chapter Eleven

[ONE]

4730 Avenida del Libertador

Buenos Aires, Argentina

0925 11 April 1943

"I wonder why that worries me?" General Arturo Rawson asked softly of his aide-de-camp, Capitan Roberto Lauffer, who sat beside him in the rear seat of Rawson's personal Packard. Both were in civilian clothing.

Rawson pointed at the official Mercedes-Benz of General Pedro P. Ramirez, which was parked at the curb in front of the Frade guest house.

"Interesting," Lauffer said.

"I better go in with you."

The driver, a sargento, also in civilian clothing, pulled up behind the Mercedes, stopped, and ran quickly around the front of the Packard to open Raw-son's door.

By the time they reached the gate in the high fence, a maid had come quickly from inside the house to open it for them.

"El Coronel Per?n asks that you join him for coffee in the sitting," she said, and then trotted ahead of them to hold open the door to the house.

The maid, trotting ahead of them again through the foyer, knocked politely at the door to the sitting, but pulled it open before there was time for a reply to her knock.

Juan Domingo Per?n, wearing a tweed jacket with an open-collared shirt, and Ramirez, in uniform, were seated side by side in identical armchairs drinking coffee. Mayor Pedro V. Querro, Ramirez's diminutive aide-de-camp, perched on the cushions of a matching couch, his feet not quite reaching the floor.

"Mi General," Rawson said to Ramirez.

"I wanted to see you, you and Juan Domingo, before you leave for the country," Ramirez said.

"Is everything in order, mi General?" Rawson asked.

"It will be if you can get into Jorge's safe before anyone else does."

Rawson moved his arm around the room, asking with his eyes if their conversation was likely to be overheard.

"Mart?n had the place examined yesterday, and has had it under surveillance since then," Per?n said.

"Claudia Carzino-Cormano told me that no one knows the combination to the safe," Rawson said. "We thus have—"

"Juan Domingo tells me he finds it hard to believe that Suboficial Mayor Rodriguez does not have the combination," Ramirez interrupted.

"Claudia told me she asked Rodriguez—or rather the son did, in her presence—and Rodriguez claimed he didn't know where the combination is."

"Juan Domingo believes he has the combination," Ramirez repeated.

"Where does that leave us?" Rawson asked.

"Juan Domingo believes he can talk to Rodriguez, explain the situation."

"I have known Rodriguez since . . . Jorge and I joined the Second Cavalry in Santo Tome as Sub-Tenientes," Per?n said. "Asking him to give the combination to me is not quite the same thing as asking him to give it to Claudia."

"Where is Rodriguez?" Ramirez asked. "In the hospital?"

"I don't think so, mi General," Lauffer said. "I'm sure he's . . . wherever Mayor Frade is."

"You mean in Jorge's house on Coronel Diaz?" Ramirez asked.

"I believe Mayor Frade is driving out to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo today, mi General," Lauffer said.

"Wonderful!" Ramirez said sarcastically. "And what do you think Suboficial Mayor Rodriguez would do if Mayor Frade asked him for the combination to the safe—presuming Per?n is correct and Rodriguez knows it?"

"Give it to him, mi General," Lauffer said. "Sir, I spent some time with them. Rodriguez has transferred his loyalty for el Coronel Frade to his son."

"Why did Jorge's son suddenly show up down here?" Per?n asked. "After all these years?"

"Obviously the Americans thought he could influence his father," Rawson said. "And some suspect he is an agent of the OSS."

"Suspect?"Ramirez snorted. "My God! He blew up the Reine de la Mer."

"Jorge's son?" Per?n asked in disbelief. Ramirez and Rawson both nodded. "And everybody knows this?"

"Everybody is pretending the Reine de la Mer was not a replenishment vessel for German submarines, which makes it easier for everybody to pretend she sank as a result of a spontaneous explosion in her fuel bunkers," Ramirez said.

"The Germans know better," Per?n said. "They know it was blown up by the United States in an outrageous violation of Argentine neutrality!"

"So, Juan Domingo, was resupplying German submarines in Argentine waters 'an outrageous violation of Argentine neutrality,'" Rawson said.

"Argentina has done no more for the Germans than the Americans did for the British," Per?n said. "I find it impossible to believe that Jorge had a part in this!"

"And I think, gentlemen," General Ramirez said, "that the less said about the Reine de la Mer, the better."

Per?n could not be silenced: "I refuse to believe that Jorge had any hand in sinking that ship!"

"Let me put it to you this way, Coronel," Rawson said. "Before the 'spontaneous combustion' of the Reine de la Mer's fuel bunkers, Jorge had an airplane . . . 'the stagger-wing,' you remember?"

Per?n nodded.

"There were reports that such an aircraft was seen near the Reine de la Mer shortly before the explosion, and other reports that it crashed into the sea. Jorge never reported the loss of his aircraft to either the authorities or his insurance company."

"His son could have taken it without his knowledge, stolen it!"

"For what I really hope is the last time, gentlemen, I will suggest that the less said about the Reine de la Mer, the better. I can't think of a clearer way to say that."

“S?, mi general," Rawson and Per?n said, almost in unison.

"There is another problem with the son," Per?n said. "Somewhere he's acquired the odd idea that the Germans were responsible for the death of Jorge."

"He's not the only one who believes that," Rawson said.

"Nonsense!" Per?n said.

"And there is one other problem vis-a-vis Jorge's safe," Rawson said. "Claudia tells me the money's in there, too."

"What money?" Per?n asked.

"The money which will ensure the success ofOutline Blue would be a polite way to phrase it," Rawson said. "The funds to bribe certain officers would be more accurate."

"I don't even like the sound of the word 'bribe,'" Per?n said. "And as a practical matter . . ."

"As a practical matter, Juan Domingo," Ramirez said, "our first consideration is to take power bloodlessly. We've all been over this. A vote was taken by the Executive Committee of the G.O.U. Certain payments will have to be made. In cash. For several months, we have been gathering the necessary funds and placing them in Jorge's hands."

"At the time," Rawson said, "it seemed the obvious way to handle it, and not only because three-quarters of the money raised was from Jorge. We had no idea he would be murdered."

"And now we find ourselves begging a norteamericano OSS agent to give us our money?" Per?n asked, his tone making it clear that he found this at least as distasteful as the subject of bribing officers.

"Unless we can get into Jorge's safe before he does, and that seems very unlikely," Ramirez said.

"Perhaps Claudia can appeal to him. To carry out something his father began," Rawson said. "Or we could appeal to him as an Argentine."

"At what price?" Per?n asked.

"From what I have seen of him, I like him," Ramirez said, ignoring the question. "I think he would trust Claudia Carzino-Cormano in this matter."

"And if he doesn't?" Per?n asked.

Rawson shrugged.

"The two of you," Ramirez said, "plus Claudia Carzino-Cormano will have to meet with him. There is no other choice. If he has a price, pay it."

"Perhaps, if—as Roberto says—Suboficial Mayor Rodriguez is with Mayor Frade all the time, he would be helpful," Ramirez said. "I wish I could be there, but. . ."

"May I ask why you won't be there?" Per?n asked.

"At my suggestion," Rawson answered for him. "To alleviate the suspicions of Almirante Montoya thatOutline Blue is about to be executed. Not that I think it will do any good."

"Is Montoya with us or not?" Per?n asked.

"I really don't know," Rawson said. "And I really don't think we will know until we put the plan in operation."

"What do you think, mi General?"

"I think el Almirante will fall, very late in the game, toward the side he thinks will win," Ramirez replied.

"Isn't it already very late in the game?" Per?n asked.

Ramirez shrugged.

"The other question to be decided, preferably over this weekend, is who will assume power when we have taken action," Rawson said.

"Presuming we have the money to take action," Per?n said, bitterly. "Money to bribe fellow officers! I—"

Rawson interrupted him. "How would you like to be President, Juan Domingo?" he asked.

Per?n's face stiffened.

"Don't joke about something like that," he said. "Someone who doesn't know better might take you seriously."

"Maybe I am serious," Rawson said. "It's something to think about."

Per?n shook his head in disbelief.

"My candidate is General Rawson," Ramirez said. "I have given General O'Farrell my written proxy vote."

"I never said I wanted to be President," Rawson said.

"Many people, not only me, consider you to be the logical choice," Ramirez said. "Now that Jorge Frade is no longer available to us."

"Why not you, mi General?" Per?n asked.

"I do not wish to be considered. I am doing what we must do for the good of Argentina, not to assume political office," Ramirez said.

"For what it's worth, the Germans would be pleased if you were to assume the presidency, mi General," Per?n said.

"You haven't mentioned any of this to any of your German friends, have you, Juan Domingo?" Rawson asked softly.

"You know better than that, Arturo," Per?n said. "This is our business, no one else's. Which is not to say that the Germans won't heave a sigh of relief when we do it."

"Why, do you think?" Rawson asked softly.

"What's wrong with Argentina now, what has been wrong with Argentina all along, is a lack of order, a lack of efficiency, a lack of respect for authority. The Germans understand that."

Rawson shrugged.

"You don't agree?"

"The means by which the Germans have achieved order, efficiency, and respect for authority is more than a little frightening."

"You were delighted when National Socialism took power, as I recall," Per?n said.

"That was before I came to understand what Se?or Hitler really had in mind for Germany."

"You said—you gave a speech, I was there—you said 'only Germany can stem the spreading cancer of godless communism.'"

"I think the Germans will be pleased if we succeed," Ramirez said. "Because it will probably accrue to their advantage. They would rather deal with someone they can trust. And like us, they have learned one cannot trust Castillo."

"Is there anything wrong with that, mi General?" Per?n asked.

"Not if that's as far as it goes," Rawson said. "The only thing I can imagine worse for Argentina than Castillo staying in power is Argentina joining the Axis."

"The Germans will win this war, Arturo," Per?n said firmly.

Rawson shook his head from side to side in disagreement.

"Let's not discuss that now, for God's sake," Ramirez said. "The sooner you reach Estancia Santo Catalina, the better. Call me when you learn anything."

[TWO]

Route Nacionale Two

Outside La Plata, Buenos Aires Province

1005 11 April 1943

"Piss call time, Enrico," Clete announced, glancing at Enrico, beside him in the front seat of the Buick.

When they left Buenos Aires it was too cold to put the Buick's top down, and for a while Clete even turned on the heater. Clete was happy with his impulsive decision at the last minute before leaving The Museum to wear his new Stetson. His head would have been cold without it.

And also, he admitted to himself, it was somehow comforting to have something of Uncle Jim's with him. James Fitzhugh Howell bought the white curled-brim Stetson with a rattlesnake band the morning of the day he died at the Midland Petroleum Club.

"Se?or?" Enrico said, confused.

Clete pointed out the windshield to a truck stop.

"Coffee time," Clete said as he slowed to make the turnoff.

"Here, Se?or Clete?" Enrico replied, making it clear he felt that stopping at a truck stop was beneath the dignity of a Frade.

"Time and the call of nature wait for no man," Clete intoned sonorously, mimicking the announcer on "The March of Time."

Because he was as unfamiliar with the movie-theater newsreel program as he was with the Marine Corps expression giving permission to void one's bladder, Enrico looked at him curiously but said nothing.

Clete pulled the Buick into a parking spot beside a Ford stake-body truck and got out. The truck was grossly overloaded with bags of carrots, each as large as his wrists.

"Leave that in the car," he ordered, pointing to Enrico's double-barreled shotgun.

Enrico reluctantly stowed the shotgun under the seat and got out.

The large, noisy, simply furnished restaurant was crowded with people, most of them there because it was also the local bus depot. Clete found a table and ordered hot chocolate, which was his solution to Argentinian coffee strong enough to melt one's teeth. Enrico was made uncomfortable by this, too. The waiter, apparently agreeing with Enrico's conviction that men drank coffee, women and children hot chocolate, asked him to repeat the order.

Clete went in search of the bano. It was clean but not very sophisticated. A concrete wall served as the urinal; water trickled down it. Flat porcelain fixtures at floor level, with a hole and places to place one's feet, served those who had to move their bowels. The odor was not pleasant.

Don't be a snob. This is far more elegant than the slit trenches on Guadalcanal. And it's at least inside.

When he returned to the table, he saw that he and Enrico were the subject of great interest to their fellow patrons.

What did the waiter do? Tell everybody that the guy in the funny hat and boots ordered chocolate?

He smiled warmly at an enormous truck driver with bad teeth and three days' growth of beard. After a moment the man gave him a somewhat uneasy nod of the head.

When they left the restaurant, he put the convertible's top down but left the windows rolled up. Enrico was visibly relieved that they were leaving the truck stop.

He drove past Lake Chascom?s to the Pila turnoff, then down it to and through the town of Pila, a sleepy village lined with stone houses that looked as if they were built a century or more before.

A mile out of town, they reached a brick and wrought-iron sign at the side of the road, reading "San Pedro y San Pablo." A moment later they bounced over eight railroad rails laid closely together across the road as a cattle barrier. On both sides of the road, the grassy pampas rolled gently off to the horizon. It looked something like the Texas prairie, except the grass was greener and here and there were stands of trees. Except for water tanks and their windmill-powered water pumps, no buildings or other signs of human life were in sight. Cattle roamed, in small groups or alone, as far as the eye could see.

Ten minutes later—at sixty-five m.p.h., a bit less than ten miles past the sign—he had his first glimpse of the windbreak—a triple row of tall cedars— which surrounded the main buildings of the ranch. And a minute or so after that, he was able to pick out the sprawling, two-story, white-painted stone house, sitting with its outbuildings in a three-hectare manicured garden, and then, just outside the windbreak, the landing strip, with two Piper Cubs parked on it.

I really don't want to go looking for that goddamned replenishment vessel in one of those puddle-jumpers.

As he came closer, he could see that the doors of the hangar where the Beechcraft stagger-wing used to be kept were open, and he could just make out the nose of a third Piper Cub.

Why not? The stagger-wing's on the bottom of Samboromb?n Bay.

Even if somehow I get that C-45, could I land it on this strip? Why not? I have all the room I need to make a slow, low-level approach. And I brought the stagger-wing in and out of here without any trouble, so why not a C-45? The problem will not be taking off, but the landing roll coming in. If I land long here, I'll run out of runway. You can't stop a C-45 as easily as you can a stagger-wing.

His attention on the landing strip, he drove without paying much attention through the cedar windbreak and found himself on the cobblestone drive inside.

Suddenly he became aware that there were people lining both sides of the road, men, women, and children. Many of the gauchos—Clete thought of them as cowpokes—held the reins of horses in their hands, and all of them had removed their hats and were holding them in their hands.

Christ, it's a reception committee. Paying homage to the new Patron. The Patron is dead; long live the Patron!

And they knew I was coming. I didn't see anybody as we came in here, but somebody damned sure saw us, and called here and let them know we were coming.

What the hell am I supposed to do, wave at them?

Made uneasy by the unabashed humility, he raised his left hand and waved it somewhat stiffly as he fixed his eyes straight ahead and drove to the house.

The household staff, half a dozen maids, three women in cook's aprons, and a middle-aged woman he recognized as the housekeeper— What the hell is her name?—were lined up on the steps of the shaded verandah behind three priests. Two of them were in— whatever the hell they call that skirt-like costume—and one wore a black business suit— I recognize the old priest and the young one from Se?ora Pellano's funeral, but who's the one in the suit?Antonio, his father's butler, stood beside the priests. What the hell did Antonio do? Get up at four in the morning to get down here before me? Or drive down here last night after I finally went to bed?

One of the maids ran down to the car and pulled open Clete's door.

"Thank you," he said, and stepped out.

The older priest, apparently taking advantage of his seniority, walked up to Clete.

"God bless you, my son," he said.

Clete offered his hand. It was ignored as the priest made the sign of the cross.

"Good to see you, Father," Clete said, and nodded to the younger priest, who also responded by making the sign of the cross.

The priest in the business suit, who looked to be in his forties, walked up to Clete and offered his hand. He was a bespectacled, slim, fair-skinned man who had lost most of his light-brown hair. Clete's immediate impression of him—his well-cut black suit didn't come off a rack in a cheap clothing store; there were gold cuff links on his shirt; and something about him suggested, if not arrogance, then unusual self-confidence—was that he was anything but a simple parish priest.

"I'm Father Welner, Mr. Frade," he said in only slightly accented British English. "On those—too rare, I am afraid—occasions when your father felt it necessary to seek absolution, I was his confessor."

"How do you do?"

"There wasn't the opportunity, the time, for us to talk in Buenos Aires. Perhaps we can find time here."

"I'd like that," Clete said.

I know who this guy is. The only lowly priest in that squad of bishops and monsignors at the church. What does he want to talk about?

"Fathers Denilo and Pordido would like your approval of the arrangements for the requiem mass for your father tomorrow," Welner said.

"I'm sure whatever they've laid on will be fine," Clete said.

" 'Laid on' ? Set up? Arranged?"

"Yes."

"I think Father Denilo would be grateful if you were to review what he's laid on," Welner said.

"I would be honored, Father Denilo," Clete said, switching to Spanish and smiling at the older priest. "If you and Father Pordido would take a coffee, or a glass of wine, with me while you tell me of the arrangements you have made for the mass."

The old priest beamed.

"Where do we go, Antonio?" Clete asked.

"I suggest the library, Se?or Cletus."

"Father, I will be with you in just a moment," Clete said. "There is something that requires my immediate attention."

"I understand," Father Denilo said.

Clete motioned the priests to proceed ahead of him into the house. They insisted that he go first.

Clete went with them to the library, and then motioned Antonio to follow him back into the corridor.

"Has Se?ora Carzino-Cormano been here? Last night, or this morning?"

"No, Se?or."

"That will be all, Antonio, thank you," Clete said, and walked down an interior corridor with Enrico on his heels.

"Where's the safe?" Clete asked.

"In el Coronel's study."

"Christ, we may need a key!"

Enrico went into his pocket and came up with a single key on a key ring. Most of the keys to doors at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo were old-fashioned, large and simple. The key Enrico held up was small and modern; the lock it fit could not be picked by an amateur burglar with a screwdriver.

El Coronel's study had been off limits to just about everybody, and kept carefully locked. Clete was not surprised to find it locked now.

"I'll need my own key, Enrico," Clete said.

Enrico stepped past him and put his key in the lock.

“S?, Se?or," Enrico said, and pushed the door open for him, and flicked on the lights. The heavy metal blinds on the window were down. Enrico looked to Clete for orders about the blinds.

"Leave them down for now," Clete said.

El Coronel's study was furnished simply. There was a comfortable-looking, thickly upholstered dark-red leather armchair with a matching footstool. Beside it was a table holding a cigar humidor and a large ashtray. Two smaller, cloth-upholstered armchairs that showed no signs of use faced a large wooden desk, behind which was a high-backed, red leather office chair, the cushions showing signs of much use. A library table held four leather-bound photo albums. A large oil portrait of Elizabeth Ann Howell de Frade with her infant son, Cletus, in her arms hung over the fireplace.

Jesus, I'd swear I saw that hanging in Uncle Willy's house. Are there two of them ?

Clete walked to a small table holding a large photograph in an ornate silver frame and looked at it. He had seen it once before, on the only previous time he had been in his father's study. It had been taken before the altar of the Cathedral of St. Louis on Jackson Square in New Orleans. It showed Elizabeth Ann Howell de Frade in her wedding dress standing beside her new husband, in formal morning clothes. They were flanked by His Eminence, the Archbishop of New Orleans; Mr. James Fitzhugh Howell; and Miss Martha Williamson, his fianc?e. At opposite ends stood Mr. Cletus Marcus Howell, whose smile was visibly strained; and a tall, erect, olive-skinned young man in morning clothes, whom Clete had not previously been able to identify. Now he was sure he could.

"Enrico?" he asked. Enrico came to him. Clete pointed.

“S?, Se?or Clete. Juan Domingo Per?n."

"He was my father's best man?"

Enrico looked confused.

"El Coronel Per?n—he was then, as your father was, Capitan—stood beside your father. Had the rings. Is that 'best man'?"

"Yes, it is," Clete said.

I'll be damned!

"Open the safe, Enrico, please," Clete ordered.

One of the walls in the study was covered with framed photographs of Clete. At age nine, taking first place in the Midland FFA Sub-Junior Rodeo Calf-Roping Contest. As Cadet Corporal Cletus Frade in the boots and breeches of the Corps of Cadets of the Texas Agricultural and Mechanical College. In sweat-soaked whites, looking as if he had already had at least three post-tournament Sazeracs, with the rest of the Tulane Tennis Team . . .

The photo albums on the table were full of photographs and newspaper clippings, mostly from the Midland, Texas, Advertiser and the New Orleans Times-Picayune. Since there was no other way for Jorge Guillermo Frade to keep up with the activities of his son, he had hired a lawyer in Midland, and the lawyer had hired a clipping service. Every time Clete’s name was mentioned in the newspapers—for example, when he was a guest at some six-year-old's birthday party—it was clipped out and sent to Argentina.

Clete's eyes teared, and his throat was tight.

What the Old Man did to you, Dad— what he did to me— was wrong. You were my father, and I was your son, and he should have let us get to know one another.

He didn't kill my mother. She killed herself. When she converted to Catholicism, she went whole hog— not surprising, considering who her father was— and swallowed that horseshit about birth control being a mortal sin — murder — and got herself in the family way even after she was told it would very likely kill her.

And you lied to me, every time the subject came up. My father didnot simply put me out of his mind as if I never happened. The proof of that is all this crap in this room. He never got in touch with me because you did everything in your power to keep him from even writing me a goddamned letter.

And he told me, and I believe him, that he considered having me kidnapped and brought here. And the only reason he didn't was that if he did, his sister would have raised me, and she's as nutty as a fruitcake. He didn't have me kidnapped because he thought Martha raising me was better for me than having Beatrice raise me. And he was right.

He didn't forget me. For Christ's sake, the only reason he didn't marry Claudia was because it would have posed problems about my inheritance. He wanted me to have everything he owned.

Another wall of el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade's private study was a bookcase. Books that he actually read, Clete had decided the first time he saw them, not books bought by the yard to look good.

When Clete raised his eyes from the leather-bound photo albums, Enrico was tugging at one of its shelves. A four-shelf section of the bookcase swung slowly outward, revealing a substantial-looking safe. There was a combination dial and a small, spoked, stainless-steel wheel. On the safe was the legendHimpell G.m.b.H, Berlin in gold letters.

Enrico leaned over to work the combination.

"While I think of it, you'd better give me the combination," Clete said. "Wait till I find a pencil and some paper."

He went to his father's desk, opened the center drawer, and found both.

"OK?"

"Se?or Clete, you are going to write the numbers down?" Enrico asked dubiously.

"Let's have them," Clete ordered.

"Right two times, then stop at eleven," Enrico reported reluctantly. "Left, past eleven, to eighteen. Right past eighteen to twenty-two. Left past twenty-two to nine."

Clete wrote the numbers down.

"Let me see if I can work it," he said, and went to the safe. He showed Enrico what he had written down: Right 12. Left 27. Right 26. Left 13.

"That is not what I told you," Enrico said, his curiosity showing.

"It is if you add the year 1943 to it," Clete said. "Eleven and one is twelve; eighteen and nine is twenty-seven, et cetera. Get the idea?"

“S?, Se?or Clete," Enrico said. "Clever!"

"I am a clever fellow with a lousy memory," Clete said. "That little trick is very helpful."

He had done the same thing with the telephone numbers Leibermann gave him in the Cafe Colon.

Clete bent over the safe and, reading from the notepaper, worked the combination. The dial turned very smoothly; there was no audible or tactile sensation as he moved the dial to the numbers.

I'm going to look like a fool if this thing doesn't open.

He stopped on thirteen and turned the spoked, stainless steel wheel. Again there was no sound or tactile sensation, but when the wheel had turned its limit, and he pulled on it, the safe door swung smoothly open.

There were two shelves in the safe, dividing it into thirds. The upper shelf held an inch-thick stack of paper held together with a metal fastener, obviously a document of some sort. Clete started to reach for it, then stopped when his eye fell on the butt of a Colt .45 ACP pistol nearly concealed under a large light-blue manila envelope on the second shelf.

What the hell is the .45 for?

A melodramatic scenario came into his mind.

El Coronel, forced to open the safe at gunpoint, does so, and suddenly turns, blazing automatic in hand, and puts a round right between the eyes of the bad guys. Oh, horseshit!

He pushed the manila envelope to the side and picked up the pistol. The hammer was cocked and the safety was off. He ejected the clip, then worked the action. A stubby, glistening .45 cartridge arced though the air, bounced on the tile floor, and came to rest on a rug.

Jesus Christ! Loaded, cocked, and safety off! And obviously on purpose. El Coronel was not the sort of man to leave a loaded, cocked pistol around, safety off, through carelessness.

Enrico picked up the cartridge and handed it to Clete. Clete put the cartridge into the magazine, then inserted the magazine into the pistol, letting the slide slam forward, chambering a round. He put the safety on, then carefully laid it on the rug. After that, he picked up the envelope and untied the string holding it closed.

It contained two Argentine passports made out in names he didn't recognize, but carrying the photographs of Dave Ettinger and Tony Pelosi. He glanced at them quickly, put them back in the envelope, then put the envelope on the floor beside the pistol.

Then he reached into the safe and took out the document. When he did so, he saw that it had been lying on half-inch stacks of currency.

What the hell is all that money doing in there?

He started to pick up one of the stacks of money, then changed his mind.

I don't think Claudia would be all that concerned about money, not even this much money.

He looked at the document. Its light-blue— like the blue in the Argentine flag,he thought—cardboard covers were blank. He turned to the first page. Neatly typed in the center were the words"Esquema Azul" —Outline Blue.

Jesus! What the hell is this?

He turned to the next page. It was once as neatly typed as the title page, but there had been a number of corrections since, in both pencil and ink. He had little doubt, however, that it was an index to the rest of the document. Turning to page three removed any doubt about what he was holding in his hands.

PART ONE STATEMENT OP PURPOSE

The purpose of OUTLINE BLUE is the seizure, in the name of the people of Argentina, by the Group of United Officers of all elements of the Government of Argentina; to depose the incumbent President of the Republic and all officials holding appointed power under him; and to govern the Republic of Argentina under Martial Law until, at the earliest feasible time free, honest and democratic elections may be held.

Jorge Guillermo Frade

Coronel, Cavalry, Retired

President, Grupo de Oficiales Unidos

No wonder Claudia wanted to lay her hands on this before I did!

But if she knew about it, that means she's involved with this, too, and up to her ears!

I wonder where, if at all, Humberto fits in. I don't think he knows about this.

He quickly flipped through the folder. It wasn't exactly like an American Operations Order, but it was organized very much like the last Operations Order Clete had seen— '"Movement of VMF-221 From Ewa Marine Air Station, Territory of Hawaii, to Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands."

Who was to do what and when was spelled out in numbing detail. The consequence of the "who" listed inOutline Blue was that it was a list of all the officers, all over Argentina, Army and Navy, who were involved in the planned coup d’?tat. Officers who could be tried for treason, if this document fell into the wrong hands andOutline Blue was nipped in the bud.

"Did you know what this was?" Clete asked.

“S?, Se?or Clete."

"You think Se?ora Carzino-Cormano did?"

"Of course."

"Humberto Duarte?"

"I don't think so."

"Is there someplace else we can hide this?" Clete said. "She's liable to show up here any moment. And I want to read it."

And decide what, if anything, I'm going to do with it.

"I know where to put it," Enrico said. "The money, too, Se?or Clete?"

"What's that money for?"

"To pay some of the senior officers," Enrico replied, making it clear he thought that should have been self-evident.

"I think we'll leave the money there," Clete said, thinking aloud. "I may even let Se?ora Carzino-Cormano into the safe. But I want to putOutline Blue someplace else—someplace safe—until I make up my mind what I'm going to do about it, understand?"

Enrico nodded.

Clete laidOutline Blue on the floor and reached for the three large manila envelopes inside the safe. The first two held legal documents, including several deeds.

These were obviously the documents Humberto was concerned about. The records involving the investment of the money Peter von Wachtstein had brought from Germany.

There's no time to look at these now, and even if there was I wouldn't know what I was looking at.

The third envelope contained only another, letter-size envelope. The rear flap was embossed,Schloss Wachtstein, Pomern.

Wachtstein Castle, Pomerania. A year ago, six months ago, when I heard the wordcastle, I thought of King Arthur, or maybe Frankenstein. It never occurred to me that anybody I would ever know would have grown up in a castle ... considered it his home. And when I heard "Pomerania," I thought of some ugly snarling mutt sitting drooling on a fat lady's lap.

He remembered Peter trying without success to control his voice and to ignore his tear-filled eyes when he read the letter aloud, translating it for him as he did so.

And he remembered his father reading the letter shortly afterward, and then, turning to Peter with tears in his eyes and with great difficulty finding his voice, finally saying, "I can only hope, my friend, that one day my son will have reason to be half as proud of me as you must be of your father."

Well, I'm proud as hell of you, too, Dad. It took balls to sign thisOutline Blue thing. You damned well knew your signature was all Castillo would need to convict you of treason and stand you in front of a firing squad. Maybe signing it wasn't smart, but it was the honorable thing to do.

His own eyes watery, he replaced the small envelope in the larger one, tied it, and put it on the floor with everything else. Then he walked to his father's desk, sat down in his father's chair, and started to readOutline Blue.

"Se?or Clete, the good fathers are waiting for you," Enrico said.

"Damn!" Clete said. He closedOutline Blue and held it out to Enrico. "Wherever you take this, Enrico, put it someplace where I can look at it later."

“S?, Se?or."

[THREE]

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province

1105 11 April 1943

"May I?" Father Welner asked, holding up a fresh bottle of wine and a corkscrew.

Fathers Denilo and Pordido had just left them, after two glasses of wine each and a fifteen-minute briefing on the requiem mass. It was apparently going to be nearly as elaborate as the service in the Basilica of Our Lady of Pilar; all that was missing was the casket and the Hiisares de Pueyrred?n.

"Of course," Clete said, and slid his glass across the desk. "I could use another sip myself."

"Was that difficult for you?" Welner asked, and then interrupted himself. "This is very nice. It comes from one of your vineyards. Your father was very fond of it."

"Oneof my vineyards?"

"San Bosco, in Cordoba. It's essentially a varietal cabernet." Welner pulled the cork out, sniffed it, and then poured wine into Clete's glass before filling his own.

"That wasn't difficult," Clete said. "Odd. I'm not a Catholic, and having a Catholic priest seek my approval, of anything, is a little strange."

"Oh, but you are a Catholic," Welner said.

"I'm an Episcopalian, Father," Clete said. "An Anglican, I guess you say down here. A communicant of Trinity Protestant Episcopal Church, Midland, Texas."

"You were baptized here into the Roman Catholic Church," Welner said. "So far as we're concerned, you're a Roman Catholic."

"So far as I'm concerned, Father, I'm not."

"Would it offend you if I continue to think of you as a Christian? There is even some talk in Rome that Anglican holy orders are valid."

"You can think of me any way you want to. Father."

Welner smiled and nodded.

"You made Father Denilo happy when you approved of the arrangements he made. Your approval is very important to him. I know he would like to stay on here at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. He's been here for almost thirty years."

"What have I got to do with him staying on or not?"

"In one sense, nothing. He is a diocesan priest, assigned here on the sole authority of his bishop. On the other hand, if it came to his bishop's attention that the Patron of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo wished that Father Denilo was assigned elsewhere, I'm sure the Bishop would consider that the Patron of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo provides—I would guess—somewhere between forty and fifty percent of his budget."

" 'Money talks,' huh? You sound like my grandfather."

"Should I take offense at the comparison? Your father was not an admirer of your grandfather, of whom he often talked."

"No offense was intended. I'm very fond of, greatly admire, my grandfather."

I even admire his capacity to hate, his ruthlessness. So what does that make me? A chip off the old blockhead?

"Your father described him as a hardheaded man who saw things only in black and white. Which could have been a description of himself."

Clete chuckled.

"Where are you assigned, Father? I guess I'm asking how come you were my father's priest. . . what did you say, 'his confessor'?"

"I'm a member of the Society of Jesus."

"A Jesuit?"

Welner nodded. "I am educated in the law, canonical and temporal. I teach in Buenos Aires, at the University of St. Ignatius of Loyola. We're not really as bad, as Machiavellian, as we are sometimes painted. Mr. Frade."

"What makes you think I think you're Machiavellian?" Clete asked with a smile.

"Your eyes. When your mouth said 'Jesuit,' your eyes said, 'OK, that explains everything.'"

"Am I that transparent?"

"You are your father's son, Mr. Frade. You are no more opaque than he was. And I was his friend—as well as his confessor—for many years."

"You said you wanted to talk to me. What about?"

"I am, of course, first and foremost a priest. I thought I might be of some service under the circumstances. How are you handling your father's death, for example?"

"Frankly, Father, with a good deal of anger."

"The classic dichotomy between the 'eye for an eye' of the Old Testament and Christ's admonition to 'turn the other cheek' in the New."

" 'Thou shalt not murder,'" Clete quoted.

" 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,'" Welner responded.

"How did we get into this?" Clete asked.

Welner picked up the wine bottle.

"This may have something to do with it," he said. "In vino veritas."

"Well, let's get off the subject," Clete said.

"As you wish," Welner said. "There is nothing else you would like to talk about?"

"Not a thing, thank you," Clete said, and then heard himself saying: "Well, there is something."

"What?" Welner asked.

Clete picked up his wineglass. It was nearly empty. He drained it, reached for the bottle, poured more, and then offered the bottle to Welner, who nodded.

"I need a little cultural advice," Clete said as he filled the priest's glass. "Not moral."

"When faced with more tableware than you know what to do with, the best thing to do is work inward," Welner said, straight-faced. "The outer fork first, then the—"

"My Aunt Martha taught me all I need to know about knives and forks, thank you very much, Father," Clete interrupted, chuckling.

"I'm surprised. According to your father, norteamericanos are savages who handle their food with sharpened sticks," Welner said. "I was apparently misinformed."

"Actually, most of the time we just use our fingers," Clete said.

"What is your cultural problem?"

"I think the wine got to me," Clete said. "Now I'm sorry I started this."

"Your father once told me—we had been drinking some wine—that the only reason he tolerated me at his table was that I was the only priest he ever knew who didn't pry," Welner said. "We'll leave your cultural problem at that."

He took a swallow of his wine and set the glass down.

"I'll leave you to get settled," he said. "Thank you for your kindness to Father Denilo."

Clete had a sudden insight.

"Is that why you were here to greet me?"

"One of the reasons. Father Denilo is a good man, a good priest, but I wasn't sure you would understand him. Or he you."

"Tell the bishop that if he transfers him, I will shut off the money," Clete said.

"I won't do that," Welner said. When Clete looked at him in surprise, Welner went on: "According to your father, you are, or were, a very fine officer. Doesn't the U.S. Army teach its officers to conserve their ammunition against the time when they will really need it?"

"I was a Marine, not a soldier," Clete said. "But thank you for the advice."

"Thank you for the wine," Welner said, and started to walk out of the room. "I'll see you again, soon."

"I'll look forward to it," Clete said, feeling somewhat hypocritical.

He heard the sound of an airplane engine, low, over the house, distracting him.

That's not one of el Coronet's Piper Cubs.

Two of them are J-3s with a 40-horsepower Continental A-40-4 engines; the third one is a J-4 with a 75-horsepower Continental A-75-8.

All of which are now mine, of course.

There's a much bigger engine in whatever that is.

I wonder what it is ?

The sound of the engine changed as the pilot throttled back for landing.

I wonderwho it is, landing on my strip ?

He returned his attention to Father Welner and saw that the priest had just about reached the door.

"Father," Clete called out, and when the priest stopped and turned to look at him, Clete heard himself blurting, "Father, I've ... uh ... I've made a girl pregnant."

Welner looked at him for a long moment.

"You don't consider that a moral problem?"

"The morality of it will have to sort itself out. What I'm ignorant about is how to tell her father."

"You love her?"

"Yes, I love her."

"You intend to marry her?"

"Of course."

"Who is she?"

"I'm reluctant to give you her name."

"You may not like this, but in my mind you've come to me as a priest. What you tell me will go no further. At least tell me, is she of your background?"

The already faint sound of the aircraft engine died as the pilot shut it down, and then there was a backfire.

What the hell is that engine? Who is that?

"Dorotea Mallin," Clete heard himself saying. "Her father is Enrico—"

"I know him well," Welner said. "He will not like this at all."

"He's a hypocritical sonofabitch," Clete was shocked to hear himself blurting. "Great wife, great family, and he was keeping a mina" —mistress— "on the side."

" 'Judge not,' et cetera," Father Welner said. "I must say I admire your taste. And, now that I think about it, I can see why Dorotea was attracted to you."

"I think they call that 'stupidity,'" Clete said. "For one thing, she's just a child . . ."

"Not any longer," Welner said.

". . . who really had no comprehension of what she was letting herself in for."

"Because of your connection with the OSS?"

"Where did you hear about th— What was that you said, 'OSS'? Never heard of it."

"Where do you think?"

"Yeah," Clete said.

"You might consider that in the United States, there are probably many thousands of young women with child, whose husbands are off fighting a war. Is Dorotea's situation so different?"

"Hell, yes, it's different. I don't want her, or our baby, killed because the Germans are after me."

"Then you will have to make provisions for her. Bring her out here, for example, after you're married."

"The immediate problem is to get married," Clete said. "How do I go about that? Show up at his door? 'Buenos dias, Se?or Mallin, you're about to be a grandfather, and I'm the sonofabitch who did it?”

Welner chuckled.

"You're asking for my advice?"

"I guess I am," Clete said after thinking it over.

"Well, then, I would suggest you first tell your uncle Humberto, and then Se?ora Carzino-Cormano. Overlooking the missing sacrament, she is de facto your father's widow. She would want to know; she would be deeply hurt if you didn't tell her. If that bothers you, I'll be happy to talk to them for you."

"And then what?"

"And then Humberto and Claudia and I will call upon Se?or Mallin to discuss the problem we have regarding the children."

" 'The children'? And then what?"

"What can he do, Cletus?" Welner asked. "Shoot you . . . ?"

That's the first time he called me by my Christian name.

"Throw Dorotea out on the street? You and Dorotea are not, you know, the first two young people in history who let their glands overwhelm their brains. He loves Dorotea, and in time he may even learn to tolerate you."

"That'll be a cold day in hell," Clete said.

"A newborn, they say, can melt stone hearts."

"You really think there won't be a problem?"

"There is a problem. We can deal with it. And I'm sure the bishop, after prayerful consideration, would be willing to accept my suggestion that he waive the customary banns for the Patron of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. You could be married here at the chapel. Possibly as soon as next week."

"By a Catholic priest? The Old Man will shit a brick when he hears about that!"

"Now, there's a colloquialism I never heard before," Welner said. "'The 'Old Man'—presumably you mean your grandfather—will 'shit a brick'?"

Clete nodded, smiling.

"A little vulgar, I suppose, but accurately descriptive."

"I am sure that Dorotea, or her mother, knows one of my erring brother priests of the Anglican persuasion who could be induced into performing, quietly, one of your pagan rituals. You could tell your grandfather about that ceremony."

"I'll be damned," Clete said.

"Not for getting married, I wouldn't think."

"I mean, that's all there is to it? It can be arranged?"

"It can be arranged, because it has to be arranged. Would you like me to speak with Claudia and your uncle Humberto?"

Clete nodded. "I'd be grateful. I'm a coward."

"No," Welner said. "A confused young man, perhaps, but not a coward." He looked at his watch. "I'll have to telephone Buenos Aires and break an appointment," he said. "No problem. I really didn't want to drive in there and then have to drive right back. Humberto and your aunt Beatrice will probably arrive here in time for tea. I'll go see Claudia now, and come back in time to be here when they arrive."

"I'm very grateful," Clete said. "Thank you."

"That's what priests are for, you know. Trying to help people follow God's commandments."

He shook Clete's hand firmly and walked out of the library.

That's one clever sonofabitch,Clete thought. A used-car salesman in a clerical collar. I should check to see if I still have all my fingers after that politician 's handshake, and then see if I still have my wristwatch and wallet. I don't have the foggiest idea what, but he wants something from me.

That said, why do I feel a hell of a lot better right now than I have since I came down here? Because he said he's going to fix things about Dorotea. And I think he will. And if he can, he can have anything he wants.

Within reason.

Chapter Twelve

[ONE]

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province

1125 11 April 1343

Enrico rose to his feet when Clete came out of the library. He had been sitting in one of the massive wooden armchairs that lined the wide corridors of the house, spaced every ten feet in nearly military precision, like soldiers guarding a perimeter. They were nearly square, and their only upholstery was thick, deeply tooled cowhide saddle leather nailed to the backrests, seats, and armrests.

"Whose airplane did I hear landing?" Clete asked.

"I have sent Rudolpho to find out."

The logical thing is to be patient. Rudolpho will be back in a minute with an explanation. What difference does it make, anyway?

To hell with it.

Enrico caught up with him as he walked down the verandah steps.

"Are there any more airplanes around here that I don't know about?"

"That was not one of our airplanes, Se?or Clete."

"Who the hell could it be?"

Enrico shrugged.

"Tell me about my father and Padre Welner," Clete said.

Enrico looked uncomfortable, reminding Clete of Welner's statement that he was "no more opaque" than his father.

"Come on, Enrico!"

"El Coronel did not treat the Padre with the proper respect," Enrico said. "They often argued. Many times, your father raised his voice to him. He even called the Padre by his Christian name, sometimes even in my presence."

"What did they argue about?"

"Matters that a man should not argue about with a priest," Enrico said.

"Such as?"

"Heaven, Hell, absolution. The sacraments. What happens between men and women."

In other words, el Padre and el Coronel were friends.

They were through the garden now, and through the windbreak.

A high-wing monoplane, a two-seater, painted in something like olive drab, with an Argentine military insignia—a blue bull's-eye with a white center—on its fuselage was parked alongside two of the Piper Cubs, dwarfing them.

What the hell is that thing? It looks like the Cadillac version of a Piper Cub. Christ, that's what it is. A military observation airplane. Probably German. I've never seen anything like it before, and they don't make airplanes in Argentina.

Standing beside it, their passage barred by Rudolpho, who was carrying a shotgun, were two men. One, in a baggy flight suit, was obviously the pilot. The other was wearing a cavalry officer's uniform, complete to highly polished riding boots. Clete recognized him immediately, although he had seen him only twice before in his life.

What the hell is el Teniente Coronel Mart?n doing here? The first thing that comes to mind, of course, is that he's afterOutline Blue, and the money. I can't think of any other reason he'd be here. But who does he want itfor? He's Internal Security — read counterintelligence— charged with protecting the government from operations likeOutline Blue. If he's working for Castillo, and I turn that over to him, that's the end ofOutline Blue, and all the players are going to find themselves blindfolded and tied to a stake in front of a wall.

Jesus, why did he show up herenow ? I need time to think.

When he saw Clete and Enrico walking toward them, the pilot nudged Martin, who looked toward them.

The first time Mart?n met Clete was the night of the incident at the Frade guest house on Avenida del Libertador. After being advised of the shooting by agents he had assigned to surveille the house, and by Frade himself, he had rushed to the house. He arrived on the heels of the Polic?a Federal, who by then had arrested the OSS agent. They were about to take him to police headquarters for questioning, but Mart?n used the superior authority of the BIS to take the "incident" under BIS control, which did not endear him to the Polic?a Federal officer-in-charge.

In the kitchen he found the Frade housekeeper with her throat cut, bathed in her own blood. Upstairs he found two dead men, both shot to death by the man they had come to murder. From the evidence, he judged that one of them had been shot—killed instantly—by the OSS agent in self-defense. The second assassin was wounded in the first confrontation. Frade then went to check on the woman, found her with her throat cut, and then returned upstairs in a rage to dispatch the second assassin. Which he did with three shots—all that remained in the pistol—one of which blew the assassin's brains all over the bathroom, where he had crawled.

It was rather a surprising loss of control by a professional, he thought at the time.

The "incident" forced Mart?n to abandon his neutral status as a BIS officer and choose sides between the government of President Castillo and the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos, led by el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade, who were plotting Castillo's ouster.

He still sometimes wondered if by choosing the latter he had righteously selected the forces of good over the forces of evil; or whether the notion that the Castillo-controlled Polic?a Federal were charging with murder the intended victim of an assassination paid for by the Germans had so outraged his sense of right and wrong that he just couldn't stand idly by.

Or, even less appealing, he wondered if he had chosen sides because he was aware that el Coronel Frade was likely to be the next President of the Argentine Republic and in a position to punish anyone who had assisted those responsible for the murder of his housekeeper and the arrest of his only son. Or to reward those who had been helpful.

After a good deal of thought, Mart?n was able to conclude only that he had no one reason to act as he had. It was a combination of several reasons. He could only hope that time would show he'd acted in the best interests of Argentina.

What he did was summon an Army ambulance from the Dr. Cosme Argerich Military Hospital and order the OSS agent confined there, incognito, until further notice, for "medical examination."

Afterward, it took some creative investigative techniques to develop the evidence necessary to support the conclusions in his Official Report of Investigation that Victim Frade had acted in self-defense and had broken no laws. But two days later, Mart?n was able to visit Frade in the hospital and inform him officially that the incident was closed and he could now leave the hospital. He also suggested then, unofficially, that Frade leave the country as soon as possible.

Clete walked up to Mart?n and put out his hand.

"How are you, mi Coronel?" he asked. "What a pleasant surprise."

"Please forgive the intrusion," Mart?n said. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't think it was necessary."

"No intrusion at all," Clete said. "Very interesting airplane. What is it?"

"A Fieseler Storch, Se?or," the pilot said. "German."

"Forgive me," Mart?n said. "Mayor Frade, may I present Capitan Birra?"

"A sus ?rdenes, mi mayor," the pilot said politely.

"I can't seem to get anyone down here to accept the fact that I am no longer a serving officer," Clete said.

"Is that so?" Mart?n said.

"That's so," Clete said.

"At one time, Capitan, Se?or Frade was an aviator in the norteamericano Corps of Marines," Mart?n said. "Why don't you show him around the plane?"

"It would be my pleasure, Se?or," Capitan Birra said, and motioned Clete toward the airplane.

"It was in this type aircraft, I believe, Se?or Frade, that the late Capitan Duarte lost his life in Russia," Mart?n said.

Clete was already sorry he had started the whole business, and it got worse. Capitan Birra was justifiably proud of his airplane. It was designed for the same purpose—liaison and artillery spotting—as aircraft used by the Army and the Marine Corps. The difference was that the aircraft more or less affectionately called "puddle jumpers" used by the Corps were Piper Cubs right off the civilian assembly line. This thing, Wildcat pilot Frade could not honestly deny, was a real airplane. It wasn't a Wildcat, of course, but neither was it a Cub.

And Capitan Birra lost no time in politely telling him the Storch had a 240-horsepower engine, a range of 800 miles, and a cruise speed of 115 m.p.h. The Cubs Clete had flown several times on Guadalcanal had 75-horse engines and a range of no more than whatever two hours at about 70 miles an hour added up to. Then Capitan Birra politely asked if it was really true that "Americans used 'little civilian planes like the Piper' in combat."

"If you are free, Se?or Frade, I would be happy to give you a ride."

"That's very kind of you, Capitan," Clete said. "But I'm sure el Coronel Mart?n is pressed for time."

"Perhaps some other time, Se?or Frade," Mart?n said. "Is there somewhere we could talk?"

"Certainly. Why don't we go up to the house?"

"May I offer my condolences on your loss?"

"Thank you very much."

Clete led him back through the windbreak and garden into the house. He told Rudolpho to see that Capitan Birra had whatever he needed, then took Mart?n into the library. Enrico followed them in and stationed himself in a chair near the door.

Clete waved Mart?n into one of the armchairs and sat down in another.

"I've never seen you in uniform before, mi Coronel."

"I wear it from time to remind myself that I am an officer, not a policeman," Mart?n said. "I'm glad to find you here, Se?or Frade."

"There's a memorial Mass for my father tomorrow. I had to be here for that, of course."

"I meant, arriving unannounced, that I was afraid that you might be out at your radio station," Mart?n said. "And I don't have much time."

I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that. That casual matter-of-fact reference to my supposedly secret radio station was purposefully made by a real professional, and this goddamned amateur doesn't know how to reply.

"How may I be of service, mi Coronel?"

"General Rawson and Coronel Per?n are coming to see you," Mart?n said. "Probably before, but possibly after, your father's memorial service."

"I've heard something . . ."

"What they want isOutline Blue . . ."

"Excuse me?"

"Outline Blue,"Mart?n repeated, "and the money that has been collected in connection withOutline Blue."

"I really have no idea what you're talking about," Clete said.

Mart?n did not even acknowledge the denial.

"The reason I wanted to see you before they came was to suggest to you— as one reasonable professional to another—that it would be in everybody's best interest for you to hand it over to them."

"Not, to repeat, that I have any idea what you're talking about, but if I did have something like that, why would it be in my best interests to hand it over to you?"

"What I said, Mayor Frade—"

"Se?orFrade, if you don't mind, mi Coronel."

"Excuse me. My memory seems to be about as bad as yours. What I actually said, Se?or Frade, was that it would be 'in everybody's best interests,' not just yours, to turn overOutline Blue and the money to General Rawson. I can understand why you wouldn't want to turn it over to me."

"Not to you? I mean if I knew what you're talking about, and if I had it."

"You're a professional, as I am. You don't know who I'm really working for. If I were in your shoes . . ."

Clete remembered then that Enrico had said that Mart?n "was now one of us."

Does this guy really think I'm a professional? Or is that el soft soapo?

"Tell me why it would be in everybody's best interests. Yours for example, mi Coronel."

"At half past nine this morning, General Ramirez went to your house on Libertador to meet with General Rawson and el Coronel Per?n. The subject of their conversation was to be how to retrieveOutline Blue, and the money, from your safe."

"You seem pretty sure it's in my safe. How is that? And what safe are we talking about, mi Coronel?"

Mart?n smiled at him and shrugged.

"I didn't think this would be easy," he said. "But if you insist. . . SinceOutline Blue and the money are not in the house on Coronel Diaz, or in the Libertador House, or in any of your father's safety-deposit boxes."

"You looked, did you?"

"Let us say I am confident about what I just said," Mart?n said. "So, by the process of elimination, and because keeping it here would have made more sense to your father than keeping it anywhere else, I think we can all reasonably presume that it's here. Specifically, in the safe in your father's private study."

"Is that the safe Se?ora Carzino-Cormano was asking you about, Enrico? The one you said only el Coronel had the combination to?"

“S?, Se?or Mayor."

"Forgive me, Suboficial Mayor," Mart?n said. "But not only do I think that you know the combination to the safe, but el Coronel Per?n thinks you do, too. He told General Ramirez that last night."

Enrico looked very uncomfortable.

"You were telling me why it would be in your best interests if I gave it to Rawson, if I had what you're talking about," Clete said.

"Again, I said, 'everybody's best interests,'" Mart?n said.

"OK, everybody's," Clete said.

"A good many officers, friends of your father's, who feel as he did that the present government of Argentina must be replaced . . ."

"Let's stop the fencing," Clete said. "What's in it for you, mi Coronel, if I hand overOutline Blue, and the money, to you?"

Mart?n met Clete's eyes.

"It would keep me from receiving an order I would much prefer not to carry out."

"What order would that be?"

"To take whatever steps are necessary to obtainOutline Blue and the money."

"And what would be in it for me?" Clete asked.

"Aside from my profound gratitude, you mean?" Mart?n asked, smiling.

"Aside from your profound gratitude."

"What did you have in mind?"

Christ, he called my bluff. He's a professional, and he knows when to call a bluff. So what do I say now? Think, for Christ's sake!

That SS colonel!

"An SS colonel arrived on the same plane as el Coronel Per?n from Germany—" Clete said.

"Goltz," Mart?n interrupted. "Josef Goltz. What about him?"

"I'm a curious man, mi Coronel. Who is he, and what does he want here?"

"He's in the secret service of the SS," Mart?n said. "I have no idea what he's doing here. What's your interest in him?"

"I'm wondering if he's the man who ordered my father's murder."

"A moment ago you suggested we stop fencing. Very well. I don't really know if he ordered your father's assassination, but it's probable. I do know that early this morning he ordered the assassination of your man Ettinger. I learned that just before we took off."

Ettinger? And not me? What the hell is that all about?

"I don't suppose you'd want to tell me who told you that? From General Ramirez?"

Mart?n shook his head and smiled. "A reliable source," he said.

"I don't suppose your reliable source had any specifics on when and where? Or, for that matter, why?"

Mart?n shook his head.

"Only the sooner the better. I would regard the threat as very real if I were you, Se?or Frade."

I believe him. And if he knows about that, it's one more proof that he's a professional, and I am out of my league trying to play match wits with him. I don't have any choice but to trust him.

"Where is it, Enrico?" Clete asked.

"Where is what, Se?or?"

"Outline Blue."

"In el Coronel's ... in your apartment, Se?or Clete."

Clete gestured with his hand for Mart?n to rise, then led him out of the library, down the corridor, and into what was now his room.

"Is there a safe in here, too?" Clete asked.

"No, Se?or," Enrico said.

He went to the bed, pulled up the bed cover, and shoved his hand under the mattress. He came out with the blue folder, walked to Clete, and handed it to him.

Mart?n chuckled.

"Since I can't believe that el Coronel Frade really hid that under his mattress, would it be reasonable for me to assume you've been in the safe?"

Clete didn't answer. He simply handed Mart?nOutline Blue.

"Thank you," Mart?n said. "Believe me. This is the right thing to do."

"I hope so," Clete said.

"The money?"

"That's in the safe."

"Is it all still there?"

"I would suppose so. I don't think anybody else has been in there."

Iknow nobody else has been in there. If anybody had, the money would be gone, and so would Peter's papers and money.

"Have you read this?"

"Just glanced through it."

"But enough to tell you how dangerous this would be in the wrong hands?"

Clete nodded.

"I really am grateful," Mart?n said. "So will a number of other people be grateful."

"Just keep me up to date on Colonel Goltz's plans for Ettinger." Clete said. "and we'll call it square."

"I would have done that anyway," Mart?n said. "I am offended at the notion of a foreigner coming into my country, cloaked in diplomatic immunity, and ordering someone killed. Are you sure there's nothing else I can do for you?"

"How good are you at obtaining import permits?"

"What kind of import permits?"

"For an airplane, for example."

"What kind of an airplane?"

"My father's airplane seems to be missing."

"A rumor is going around that it's on the bottom of Samboromb?n Bay, near where the Reine de la Mer blew up."

"I hadn't heard that," Clete said. "Anyway, I need an airplane."

"Why?"

"For someone obviously aware of the advantages of having a light airplane at your disposal, that's an odd question, wouldn't you say?"

"Indulge me."

"I have recently learned that I have a vineyard in Cordoba. . . ."

"Of course, San Bosco."

"And other property around the country."

"And you'd like to be able to fly around and look at it from time to time, is that it?"

"Right."

"Well, import permits are a little out of my line, but I'll look into it for you."

"Thanks."

"What kind of a plane did you have in mind to import? Another stagger-wing?"

"They don't make stagger-wings anymore, unfortunately. But I happen to know where I can lay my hands on a twin-engine Beech—same manufacturer—in Brazil."

"In Brazil? You mean you could fly it in? It wouldn't have to be brought in by ship?"

"It could be flown in."

"That might make things a good deal simpler. Let me ask some questions."

"Discreet questions, please, mi Coronel."

"Of course, discreet questions," Mart?n said. "And now I am somewhat embarrassed to find myself imposing on your generosity again."

"How is that?"

"Do you think you could find a briefcase, or a small suitcase, to carryOut-line Blue in?"

"Enrico?"

“S?, mi Coronel," Enrico said. "There are several briefcases here. There's probably one in the sitting closet here."

"See if you can find one, would you, please?" Clete asked.

Enrico nodded and left the bedroom.

"Do you want the money, too?" Clete asked.

"I've been thinking about that," Mart?n said. "If you don't mind, I'll leave it where it is for the time being. Money by itself is not incriminating."

"Whatever you say," Clete said. "What if General Rawson asks for it?"

"I'd give it to him, or if he should send his aide for it, Capitan Lauffer— you've met him—I'd give it to him. No one else, I would think."

Clete nodded. Enrico came back into the room carrying a somewhat worn-looking briefcase.

"Perfect," Mart?n said, taking it from him. "I'll return it, of course."

"Enrico tells me that money is to 'ensure the success' ofOutline Blue."

Mart?n looked at him coldly.

"If you're asking, politely, if it's bribe money, yes, I'm afraid it is," he said. "That offends you?"

" 'We mutually pledge to each other our lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor,'" Clete quoted. "That's from our Declaration of Independence. . . ."

"I know," Mart?n said. "I'm familiar with it."

"In our revolution, our guys took a chance. I saw where my father signedOutline Blue. He took a chance. But I didn't see anybody else's signature onOutline Blue. And everybody seems perfectly comfortable with the idea of bribing people."

"I wouldn't say anyone involved in this is comfortable with it. It's necessary."

"Why?"

"There are two kinds of officers in the Argentine Army and Navy," Mart?n said. "Those like your father, perhaps ten, fifteen percent, who have no need to concern themselves with a salary or pension. For the others, losing their commissions and their pensions, as they would ifOutline Blue fails, would mean the end of their livelihoods. Understandably, they want to protect their families —"

"As a practical matter, has anybody considered what these 'patriots' you're buying are going to do if somebody comes along with more money?"

"For what this is worth, Se?or Frade, your father had similar moral objections. The issue was debated at some length. It was decided that at whatever cost, the revolution should be bloodless. Having said that, I do not wish to discuss it further. Forgive me, but it's really none of your business, is it?"

"'I don't know if it is or not," Clete said. "If they can't carry offOutline Bile, I might be in a little trouble myself."

"I wouldn't worry about that," Mart?n said. "You're a norteamericano."

"Oh, but I'm not. I'm an Argentine."

"That's right, isn't it?" Mart?n said. "I keep forgetting that. I try, but I guess it's hard for me to think of you as an Argentine."

"Maybe you should try harder, mi Coronel. I'm going to be around awhile."

"I promise you I will," Mart?n said. He closed the briefcase, then offered his hand to Clete. "Thank you for all your courtesies."

"My pleasure, mi Coronel," Clete said. "Any time."

[TWO]

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province

1140 11 April 1343

Clete stood with Enrico on the verandah, waiting for the Fieseler Storch to take off.

He could hear the pilot test the magnetos, and then the roar as he pushed the throttle to takeoff power. Much sooner than he expected, the airplane appeared above the cedar tree windbreak in a slow, incredibly steep climb.

He's showing off, of course, the sonofabitch. But look at that thing climb!

The pilot dipped the wings, waving good-bye, and then passed over the house.

Christ, the flaps are as big as the wings. No wonder he could get it off that way!

"What do you think of Martin, Enrico?"

"For a clown, he is not so bad. Of course, he is a cavalry officer."

"There is no such thing as a bad cavalry officer, right?"

"That is not what I said, Se?or Clete."

"How do you feel about aviators, Enrico?"

"El Coronel wondered why you did not go into the cavalry, Se?or Clete."

"We don't have cavalry anymore," Clete said. "But in the Marine Corps, we sort of think of airplanes as flying horses."

Enrico considered that carefully but didn't reply.

"I'm going to take a ride," Clete said.

"To see el Jefe"—the Chief— "I will go with you, Se?or Clete."

"And Ettinger," Clete said. "You are not going. You are full of holes, and I don't want you bleeding all over a horse. It will attract flies, and annoy the horse."

Enrico looked at him long enough to decide that argument would be futile.

"Rudolpho will go with you," he announced.

"OK. If either Se?ora Carzino-Cormano or my Uncle Humberto arrives before I come back, do not tell them where I am."

“S?, Se?or Clete."

With Enrico on his heels, Clete turned and walked down the corridor toward the entrance foyer, where Antonio intercepted him.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Se?or?"

"I'm going for a ride."

"I will lay out riding clothes for you."

"Antonio, I'm a Texas Aggie. This is all the riding clothes a Texas Aggie needs."

He pulled up his khakis to reveal his boots.

"Whatever you wish, of course, Se?or Cletus," Antonio said.

As they walked across the garden to the stables, Enrico asked, "Se?or Clete, what is a 'Texas Aggie'?"

"A despoiler of virgins, Enrico. A drinker of hard whiskey, and above all, a superb horseman."

Enrico nodded.

Twenty or more saddles were in the tack room, neatly straddling leather padded sawhorses. There were two sidesaddles and a half-dozen hornless saddles, apparently for polo. The rest were recados, hornless, long-stirruped saddles that were used with a thick sheepskin pad under the rider.

Clete impulsively chose one of the latter, hoisted it onto his shoulder, and went into the stable. There was room for forty animals, each in an individual stall. Nearly all the stalls held horses. Clete noticed that Enrico was no longer with him.

"Where the hell are you when I need you?" he asked aloud. "One of these animals is a vicious sonofabitch who would toss Gene Autry on his ass, and that's the one I'll pick."

Enrico appeared a moment later, followed by Rudolpho, who had a recado over his shoulder. Enrico carried a short-barreled bolt-action Mauser rifle in his hand.

"What do I ride, Enrico?"

"Your father was fond of Julius Caesar, Se?or Clete," Enrico said, pointing to an obviously high-spirited black stallion that had put its head out of its stall and was looking at them curiously.

"Fine," Clete said, and started for the stall.

Rudolpho's eyebrows rose, and Enrico picked up on it.

"Se?or Cletus is a fine horseman," he said. "He is a Texas Aggie."

That being said, I'll get on him, and he will toss me before we get out of the yard.

"I will saddle him for you," Enrico said.

"No, you won't," Clete said.

As he saddled Julius Caesar, the horse tried to bite him. And when he led him out of the stables into the yard and tried to mount him, Julius Caesar not only shied but tried to bite him again. A few moments later, he swung into the saddle and moved across the yard to establish who was in charge. When Clete jerked on his bit, Julius Caesar reared.

Clete kept his seat, but Uncle Jim's Stetson came off.

Julius Caesar put his front feet back on the ground, took two or three delicate steps, and then reared again.

"Goddamn you! If you stepped on that hat, you sonofabitch, you're cat food!" Clete told him, as he jerked hard on the bit and kicked him hard in the ribs.

Julius Caesar came down from his rear again—then, as if he had decided that Clete was a horseman worthy to ride him, suddenly gentled down.

Enrico picked up the Stetson and handed it to Clete, who saw approval and amusement in the old soldier's eyes.

"Cat food,Se?or Clete?"

Jesus, if Enrico understood that, I must have cussed him out in Spanish!

Rudolpho, on a wiry roan, moved beside him. He held the Mauser easily, vertically, its butt on his leg.

They rode out of the yard, through the garden, and started down the road. They passed a dozen workers, each of whom took off his hat when he saw Clete and stood waiting for him to pass.

I feel like Don Pancho Spaniard, father of the dark-eyed beauty Gene Autry's got the hots for, on his hacienda down Mexico way in the movie of the same name, accepting the humble salute of his people.

I should feel embarrassed, the way I was in the car. But now I don't. How come ?

He nodded at each man and smiled.

Five hundred yards down the road, Rudolpho turned off it and onto the pampas. Clete nudged Julius Caesar with his heels and the animal broke into a canter. Just to see what the horse would do, Clete applied the pressure of his left knee and made as faint a tug on the reins as he could manage. Julius Caesar immediately turned to the left. And a moment later, when Clete applied right-knee pressure—no reins—the horse turned in the other direction.

Damned well-trained horse. No wonder my father liked him. Did he train him himself? Is this a polo pony? Aren't they smaller than this?

I'm going to have to try polo, real polo. Why not? There's two polo fields here, and it can't be all that difficult. I don't care how small the ball is, I can probably learn to whack it with a little practice.

The polo Clete had played, on Big Foot Ranch outside Midland and at College Station, was played with brooms, a volleyball, and on cow ponies, and, every once in a while, on a well-trained quarter horse, just for the hell of it.

What the hell are you thinking about?Playing polo, or Christ's sake?

Without thinking about it, he touched the reins. Julius Caesar, who had been trying to push his nose ahead of Rudolpho's roan, obediently moved behind him.

"Rudolpho, is it safe to gallop here?" he called.

“S?, Se?or."

"Let's go, then," Clete said.

Rudolpho touched the roan with his spurs and shouted something to him Clete couldn't understand. The roan broke into a gallop. Julius Caesar's ears stood up. Clete touched his heels to him, and the animal broke into a gallop.

Julius Caesar was larger and faster than Rudolpho's roan, and a minute later, passed him. Clete saw that at a full gallop the only change in Rudolpho's seat was that he no longer supported the Mauser on his knee. Now he had it cradled in his arm, like a hunter. He looked as comfortable as someone sitting in his armchair.

Well, that shatters your foolish belief that you really know how to ride a horse about as well as anybody, doesn’t it?

Five minutes later, now moving at a walk to cool the horses, Clete realized that he had no idea where he was. There was nothing from horizon to horizon but the rolling pampas, dotted with cattle and groves of eucalyptus and pine trees. No sign of a road, or even a power line or a fence.

He had a sobering thought: If I had come out here by myself, and damned fool that I am, that's exactly what I intended to do, I not only couldn't have found the station, but I would have been lost, and they would have had to send somebody to find me.

Twenty minutes later, they topped a small rise and Clete scanned the horizon. There was a glint of reflected light high in a stand of pine trees several hundred yards directly ahead. It disappeared, and then reappeared. He shielded his eyes with his hand and looked again. It was gone.

He looked again a minute or so later, and it was again visible. He had just decided it was white, and a couple of inches long—and thus probably man-made—when there was proof. There was a faint but unmistakable glint off copper wire.

A radio antenna. They were approaching the station.

It was only when they were no more than fifty yards from the thick trees that he could see through them far enough to pick out automobiles and trucks. Three of them—immaculately maintained Ford Model A pickup trucks—belonged to the estancia. And there was a 1940 Chevrolet business coupe and a 1941 Studebaker sedan. Tony Pelosi's and Dave Ettinger's cars, he decided, although he didn't know which car belonged to which.

They entered the trees, and a hundred yards inside came to a small clearing that held three buildings made of reddish sandstone. A large, somewhat florid-faced man in a gaucho's Saturday-Night-Go-to-the-Cantina costume emerged from the largest building. His flat, wide-brimmed black gaucho's hat was at a suitably cocky angle. He wore a red bandanna rolled around his neck, a flowing white blouse, topped with a black, red-embroidered vest, billowing black trousers, and soft, thigh-high black boots. There was a menacing-looking, silver-handled dagger in a leather sheath on his belt. And he held a silver Mate ( An herbal tea, also favored by Arabians, who for well over a century have been the best export customers of the Argentine Mate plantations in Corrientes Province.) jar with a silver straw in his hand. He smiled at Clete.

"Buenos tardes, Se?or."

He looks more like a gaucho than Rudolpho. The only thing he won't do is get on a horse.

Clete smiled at him, then touched his right hand to his temple in a crisp salute.

"Permission to come aboard, Chief?"

Chief Radioman Oscar J. Schultz, USN, returned the salute crisply.

"Permission granted, Sir," he said. "Welcome aboard."

Clete slid off Julius Caesar.

"I like the hat," Chief Schultz said, offering his hand.

"Thank you."

"If I'd had a little warning, I could have arranged for side boys," Chief Schultz said, and then, remembering, added soberly, "I'm sorry as hell about your father, Mr. Frade."

"Thank you. It's good to see you, Chief."

"You're just in time for lunch," Chief Schultz said, pointing inside the house. "Mr. Pelosi and Sergeant Ettinger are here. They told me you would be coming, but not when."

Tony and Dave Ettinger—a tall, dark-eyed, sharp-featured man in his late twenties, in his shirtsleeves—were seated at a wooden table. There were bowls of tomatoes, onions, and red and green peppers, and what looked like ten pounds of two-inch-thick New York strip steaks on a wooden platter.

They were being served by a dark-haired woman in her thirties, wearing a white blouse, a billowing black skirt, and what Clete thought of as gaucho boots. She smiled nervously at Clete and looked between him and Chief Schultz.

I wouldn’t be at all surprised,Clete thought, if the lady keeps the Chief warm on cold pampas nights — at least when Tony and Ettinger aren't here.

The Chief attributed his near-perfect Spanish to the "sleeping dictionary" he had known during a tour at the Cavite Naval Base in the Philippines.

"Buenos tardes," Clete said, smiling at her.

"Buenos tardes, Patron," she said.

"That's Dorothea," Chief Schultz said.

Well, that's nice. I'll have to be careful to see the two ladies are not confused.

"She's helping you perfect your Spanish, Chief?" Clete said as he slipped into a chair and offered his hand to Ettinger.

"Yeah, and she's a not half-bad cook, too," Chief Schultz said.

"I'm sorry about your father, Major," Ettinger said.

"Thank you," Clete said. "And just for the record, I'm out of the Marine Corps."

"Tony was telling me something about that."

Dorothea extended the platter of New York strip steaks—called bife de chorizo —to Clete and he took one. Dorothea filled a second plate with tomatoes, onions, and pepper.

"Se?orita," Clete began.

"Se?ora," Chief Schultz corrected him. "She's a widow."

"And you're the answer to a widow's prayer, right?" Clete said in English, and then, in Spanish, went on, "Se?ora, please find Rudolpho and tell him I said to come in and eat."

“S?, Patron."

"Tony wasn't very clear about the nature of our relationship to Commander Delojo," Ettinger said.

"I thought I made it pretty clear, Tony," Clete said, "that I remain in command of this team—and that includes you, Chief Schultz. That means you have no relationship to Commander Delojo except through me. That answer your question, Dave?"

"Not precisely," Ettinger said. "Tony said you met Mr. Leibermann." Clete nodded. "I've been passing some things I've developed to Leibermann. Shall I do the same sort of thing for Commander Delojo?"

Clete felt a surge of anger. Ettinger was a damned good man, but he seemed unable to grasp that he was in the military—he was in the Army Counterintelligence Corps, on 'detail' to the OSS—and that in the military one is not permitted to disobey orders that seem inconvenient or with which you disagree.

"What sort of things have you been passing to Leibermann, David?" Clete asked coldly.

"I've been working with the Jews here, the Argentine Jews and the refugees. . . ."

"I know that. What I want to know is what you've been passing to Leibermann."

"Nothing that has any connection with anything we're doing. I know how you feel about that."

'Then what, for Christ's sake?"

"The Argentine Jews are deeply involved in the shipping business. They've been giving me shipping manifests, sailing times, that sort of thing, for ships bound for Spain and Portugal, or allegedly bound for Spain and Portugal. Leibermann wants this sort of information, and—I don't mean to sound flip, but we are on the same side in this war—I can't see any harm in giving it to him."

Neither can I. And I would be wasting my breath to order Ettinger to stop.

"My orders—which are of course, your orders—are to have as little to do with the FBI as possible," Clete said.

"You're telling me to stop passing him this sort of information?"

"I'm telling you to have as little to do with the FBI as possible. And I would strongly suggest you do not, repeat not, ever let Commander Delojo become aware that you even know Leibermann."

"OK," Ettinger said. "That answers my question about what to tell him about Uruguay."

"Tell him what about Uruguay?"

"I'm just getting to the bottom of it," Ettinger said. "I haven't even told Tony about it."

That was my cue to sternly remind Ettinger that Tony isLieutenant Pelosi, that in my absence Lieutenant Pelosi becomes Team Chief, and that Sergeant Ettinger is duty bound to tell Lieutenant Pelosi anything and everything of interest.

But that, too, would be a waste of breath. Ettinger long ago figured out that the only reason Tony is down here is because he knows a lot about explosives and demolition, and that everything he knows about espionage and intelligence gathering can be written with a grease pencil inside a matchbook. And the truth is, Ettinger would probably make better Team Chief than I am, and for that matter, a better Station Chief than Delojo. The only reason he's not an officer is because he's a Spanish national, and the U.S. Army is not commissioning Spanish nationals.