"Pelosi and Ettinger don't have independent incomes."


"Their expenses, within reason, for their telephone or to purchase automobiles, for example, will be reimbursed. I have funds for that. It's important, you see, Frade, that no questions are raised about whence the money, beyond a reasonable salary, cometh. In your case, of course, that's not a problem. Your middle name is Howell, as in Howell Petroleum. You can buy any kind of a car you want, and I suggest you do so as quickly as possible."


"I've shipped my car from New Orleans," Clete said. "You didn't know?"


"No, I didn't. Something ostentatious, I hope?"


"You tell me. It's a '41 Buick."


"Splendid. A convertible coupe would be even better."


"It's a convertible," Clete said.


I don't believe this conversation.


"May I call you 'Cletus'?" Nestor asked.


"I'd rather you called me 'Clete.' "


"The thing is, Clete, the way to avoid suspicion is not to act suspiciously. The word will gradually get around who you are, which is to say the heir apparent to Howell Petroleum..."


"That's really not so," Clete interrupted, with a smile. "I'm one of three grandchildren."


"... and the son of Jorge Guillermo Frade."


"Mr. Nestor, do you know that I've never met my father?"


"Why don't you call me 'Jasper'?"


"Thank you."


"People won't believe, Clete, that you don't know your father." He smiled. "Everybody knows their father. They may not get along with him, but they know him."


"I thought I'd better mention it," Clete said.


"Yes. Of course," Nestor said. "As I was saying, Clete, the word will get around that you're a bachelor of means. That suits our purposes neatly. And, in one of the world's most sophisticated cities, with—in case you haven't already noticed—some of the world's most beautiful women."


Oh, I've noticed. The trouble is she just graduated from high school.


"It would attract notice if such a man did not take advantage of the repast fate has laid before him."


"I understand. Another question?"


"Certainly."


"When will I be able to get together with the other team leader?"


"I'm afraid that won't be possible," Nestor said.


"Sir," Clete protested politely. "If we are to be the backup team, shouldn't I know as much as possible about what they've got lined up?"


"Obviously, that would be the thing for you to do," Nestor said. "But, unfortunately, the team has disappeared."


With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Clete turned to look at Nestor.


"What do you mean, 'disappeared'?"


"Disappeared," Nestor repeated.


"You don't know what happened to them?"


"It's possible, but unlikely, that they are being held by the Argentines for interrogation, and that in a day, or a week, our ambassador will be summoned to the Foreign Ministry and handed a message condemning, in the strongest possible terms, this outrageous intrusion into Argentine internal affairs. But I don't think that will happen. Everybody knows the rules of the game."


"What are you saying? That they were caught and executed?"


"That seems the most likely scenario."


"Jesus Christ!"


"These things happen. They have to be expected. That's why your team was sent down here. To be available in case something went wrong."


"I suppose," Clete said.


I'm not terrified,Clete thought. I've been terrified often enough to know that's not my reaction now. How about "scared shitless"? That fits in between "terrified" and "deeply concerned."


"The United States has two important concerns here, Clete," Nestor said. "First, as a tactical objective with diplomatic overtones, the replenishment vessel has to be rendered hors de combat. And we have to accomplish that before the Brazilians decide to deal with it themselves. It is not in the interests of the United States that they go to war against Argentina at this time."


"The mentors from the Country Club discussed that in New Orleans," Clete said.


"Secondly, equally important, we have to teach the Argentines a lesson."


They just taught us one, didn't they? Don't mess with our neutrality.


"Yes, Sir?"


"I really wish you would call me 'Jasper,' " Nestor said. "I understand, force of habit, but someone hearing you might ask..."


"Sorry, Jasper. I'll work on it."


"The Argentines have to be taught that they can't stop us from making sure they stay neutral; that they can't close their eyes to the fact that the Germans are reprovisioning their submarines and surface raiders in the River Plate. More important, that even if they have eliMi?ated one of our teams, we are capable of, and will in fact, send in another team. And another. And another. As many as it takes."


"I understand. Will there be another team sent down here now?"


"I'm sure there will be. No telling, of course, how long it will take to find the men, and then run them through the training school, et cetera, et cetera. For the time being, Clete, you're the varsity team."


"Varsity team"? Jesus Christ! We're here to blow up a ship, not play football!


"It will be important for you to keep in mind that we don't want to anger the Argentineans. Ideally, you would render the replenishment ship inoperable, rather than sink it, and do so without its coming out publicly that it was done by Americans."


"Who else would do it?"


"The British, for one. The Brazilians, for another. The point is that if it became public—as opposed to private—knowledge that the vessel was rendered inoperable by Americans, there would be an inevitable public outcry—fueled by the Germans— against American violation of Argentine neutrality."


"OK. I get the picture."


"Blowing the ship up would attract attention—especially if the ship was flying the flag of a neutral country."


"Is that what happened to the team that was eliMi?ated?'' Clete's mouth ran away with him. "They 'attracted attention'?"


If Nestor was offended by his sarcasm, or even noticed it, there was no sign.


"I don't actually know. Scenario One is that they were detected and eliMi?ated while actually conducting the operation. Scenario Two is that they came to the attention of members of the Argentinean Navy who, with permission from the highest quarters, removed the perceived threat to Argentinean neutrality in such a manner that no questions could be asked. Scenario Three is that the threat to the Motor Vessel Sundsvall came to the attention of the Germans. They have a very good Sicherheitsdienst operation ..."


"A what?"


"Sicherheitsdienst—Secret Service, literally. Actually a sort of a combination of our FBI and OSS."


"TheSicher...Whatisit?"


"Sicherheitsdienst.Yes. They're quite good. Scenario Three is that the team's intentions came to the attention of the Sicherheitsdienst, and the Sicherheitsdienst, regarding them as a simple military threat, eliMi?ated them themselves. Or arranged for their eliMi?ation by Argentinean friends. As I am sure you know, there are many Argentineans, not only those of German extraction, who feel that God and reason are on the side of the Germans."


"And if the Sicherheydinn ..."


"Sicher-heits-dienst," Nestor corrected his pronunciation.


"... finds out about us, are they going to try to eliMi?ate us?"


"Possibly. The threat increases as the threat you pose to the replenishment operation increases. I'm leaving you at the Plaza after we have our lunch. When I do, I will leave my briefcase with you. In it you will find two Argentinean-manufactured copies of the Colt Model 1911A1 .45 automatic. Presumably they were stolen from the Argentinean Army. They were acquired illegally. It is against Argentinean law for any foreigner to own a pistol. A foreigner may obtain a permit to purchase a smooth-bore sporting firearm... a shotgun. Mallin, or your father, if you can strike up an acquaintance with him, can probably arrange a permit for you and Pelosi, without difficulty."


If there wasn't a bonafide threat from the Germans, he would not have come with the pistols.


"Turning to your father," Nestor went on. "I suggest you leave the initiative to him, for the next couple of weeks anyway. I don't think it will take long for him to find out that you're here. If he does not contact you during that time, you will have to take the initiative. Anyway, acquire permits and buy shotguns. The bird shooting here is magnificent, by the way. As soon as you have the shotguns, return the pistols to me."


"In other words, there is an immediate threat from the Sicherheitsdienst?"


"You pronounced it right that time," Nestor said. "I don't know. But it seems prudent to act on the presumption there might be. It took a good deal of effort and money to bring you down here. It would be a shame if the Sicherheitsdienst eliMi?ated you before you accomplished your mission. Or if you eliMi?ated yourselves by being found in possession of illegal firearms. Make sure Pelosi understands that."


"Does Ettinger have a pistol?"


"Yes. And I have had a word with him about the importance of discretion. Now, I don't want you, Clete, to think that any immediate action is required. Fortunately, we have some time."


"Sir... Sorry. I don't think I follow you."


"The replenishment vessel that was in the River Plate has left, presumably because it was out of supplies. Its replacement is almost certainly on the high seas, inbound from Europe, but won't be here for three weeks or so. We don't have a name. One possible candidate, of French registry, was sunk by a submarine off the coast of Morocco. The French blame the British; the British deny any knowledge and blame the Germans. The United States government has also denied any knowledge of the incident. That leaves three ships of interest now on the high seas; all of them are capable of the replenishment mission. As soon as I hear anything specific, if I hear of anything, I will, of course, let you know. You'll find the names in the briefcase."


Well, his intelligence is apparently good, if he has the names of three ships. But what good are the names if we don't know which ship it is? Or are we expected to take out all three of them?


"I have high hopes that David Ettinger will be helpful in finding out which of the ships is the one we're after," Nestor said, as if he knew what Clete was thinking.


"I don't follow that," Clete said.


"There are a number of Jews in the ship chandlery business here. One of the things the replenishment vessel cannot bring from Europe—it's at least a three-week voyage, more often a month—is fresh produce, meat, milk, and other nonfreezable perishables. Additionally, the more canned goods the replenishment vessel can buy here in Buenos Aires, the better for them; the longer they can remain on station. The only reason the Sundsvall left Argentinean waters was that her supply of torpedoes and diesel fuel was exhausted. So one of the things David will be looking for is a vessel which purchases more than the usual quantities of perishable goods or of canned and/or frozen supplies."


"You think people will tell him?"


"I hope so. He was trained as an investigator, for one thing, and more important, we were able to provide him with a list of names of Jews from Berlin now resident in Buenos Aires. It's likely that he will know some of them, or have mutual friends. He should be able, through them, to make contact with the people in a position to help."


"Here we are," Nestor announced, pulling into an off-the-street hotel entrance not unlike that of the Alvear Palace Hotel's. "We'll have a drink in the bar, and then have our luncheon. Did I tell you El Grill is the oldest restaurant in Buenos Aires?"


"I'll pass on the drink, thank you," Clete said.


"Oh, I think we really should have a drink," Nestor said, and there was a tone of command in his voice. "Taking an important client for a drink in the Plaza bar before lunch is the sort of thing a vice president of the Bank of Boston would be expected to do."


A uniformed doorman and a bellman walked to the car and opened the doors. The doorman greeted Nestor by name. Nestor took his briefcase and motioned for Clete to precede him into the hotel, then led him to a staircase and down it to the bar.


The room was paneled with dark wood. There was a bar, with stools, three quarters of them occupied, and a dozen tables, each with three or four leather upholstered chairs, half of them occupied.


Most of the customers were men, but there were some women. All but one of the women were striking; she was silver-haired, plump, and wearing a small fortune in diamonds on her fingers. She and the man with her, obviously her husband, were almost certainly Jewish.


And there were three Mi?as, one at the bar, two at tables, one with a man old enough to be her father, the other with a young man in a beautifully tailored suit. When he saw Clete looking at the girl, his right eyebrow rose in indignant question. Clete smiled at him, and he smiled back.


Nestor led him on a tour of the bar, introducing him to three of the men there as "Cletus Howell Frade," just as he'd done in the bank. One of the men had a Mi?a with him. She was intro duced only by her Christian name, Estrellita. Estrellita smiled shyly at him.


Then they took a table, and a waiter immediately appeared. Nestor ordered Ambassador-Twelve scotch. Clete had the waiter recite the short list of available bourbon, heard nothing he liked, and told the waiter he would have what Nestor was drinking.


The whiskey was served with a plate of hors d'oeuvres and with the same little ceremony that Alberto, the Mall?ns' butler, had used.


It's classy,Clete decided. They know how to do things down here.


He glanced around the room. There were mirrors. He found himself looking at the reflection of the good-looking Mi?a with the young man in the beautifully tailored suit. And she was looking at him. He winked. A faint but unmistakable smile touched her lips.


"That's a nice touch," Nestor said. "I understand they’re really quite comfortable."


What the hell is Spymaster talking about? What's "really quite comfortable"? The Mi?a? Come to think of it, I'll bet she is.


"Pardon me?"


"I just noticed your cowboy boots," Nestor said.


"These are boots," Clete explained. "Cowboy boots are usually old, cracked, and covered with horseshit."


He glanced down at his boots, and flicked a dried spot of mud off the glistening left toe.


When he looked up, he sensed eyes on him and glanced around the room. The good-looking Mi?a was smiling at him.


If I can escape the Mallins' hospitality, maybe I could come back here and see what develops.




[TWO]


23 Calle Arcos


Belgrano, Buenos Aires


1605 25 November 1942


The key to the lock on Clete's bedroom door was a massive device as long as his hand; and when he turned it, the bolt fell with an audible metallic clunk. It could probably be heard the length of the corridor; if so, it would probably make people wonder why he was locking the door.


But it couldn't be helped. He didn't want one of the servants barging in while he was going through the briefcase.


The afternoon was not going well. There was something about Jasper Nestor he didn't like, even if he couldn't put his finger on it. The three-ounce drink Nestor forced on him made him feel thick-tongued and stupid at lunch. And after he left the air-conditioned hotel into the summer heat, it made him dizzy and gave him a headache.


He decided in the taxi on the way to Pelosi's new apartment on Avenida Corrientes that it was probably a delayed reaction to coming from Guadalcanal, a to-be-expected resentment toward any military-age male who hadn't been there, who had been sitting around in a neutral country drinking whiskey with ice in it in an air-conditioned saloon, while he and the others were in the heat and mud and humidity of Guadalcanal eating captured Japanese food and wondering if today was the day the odds would catch up with you and your next takeoff in a battered and worn-out Wildcat was going to be your last.


And then he wasn't able to find Pelosi. Carrying the pistols in a briefcase like a Chicago gangster, he went to the apartment on Avenida Corrientes. But Pelosi wasn't there—the building manager said he would return tomorrow and finish moving in. So Clete tried the Alvear Palace Hotel.


When Pelosi wasn't there, either, Clete decided he was following his orders to familiarize himself with Buenos Aires. Clete had told him to get on a bus, any bus, and ride it as far as it went.


The bus-riding was one of the really helpful, practical suggestions they'd gotten from the mentors in New Orleans. That Pelosi was following his orders reminded Clete that he himself was violating the military equivalent of the Golden Rule: that a commanding officer should never order his men to do anything he wasn't willing to do himself. He had yet to ride on a bus. His rationale, which he knew was empty, was that he'd been too busy, and when the Buick arrived, he would make up for his failure by driving around the city.


He left a note for Pelosi in an envelope at the concierge's desk in the Alvear Palace, telling him he would meet him there at ten in the morning.




He sat down on the bed and opened Nestor's briefcase. Two envelopes were inside, unsealed. In one was a single sheet of paper on which was typed:









Sud Atlantico Mercader-Cadiz-19 Nov


Reine de la Mer—Lisbon—23 Nov


Aguila del Mare—Barcelona—16 Nov




Those are the names of the three possible ships— where the hell is Cadiz? I should have paid attention in geography class. And when they sailed. Nestor probably gave them to me in case I hear something on my own about them. He said the voyage was at least twenty-three days. Twenty-three days minimum from where? Anyway, that means the first of them will be here in the next couple weeks.


He found a sheet of paper in the writing desk and copied the names down for Pelosi.


I don't think Pelosi stands any better chance of learning anything about these ships than I do, but if Nestor thinks there's a chance— and he's the expert— no harm can be done. And even if we don't learn anything on our own, Pelosi will at least know what we're looking for.


The second envelope contained a thick stack of money, American twenty- and fifty-dollar bills. And a sheet of paper, on which was typewritten:




Receipt of Two Thousand Five Hundred Dollars ($2590.00) in reimbursement of expenses incurred in the Service of The United States is acknowledged.




Cletus H. Frade


25 November 1942




Well, that's interesting. Nestor forgot to have me sign for what is obviously our expense money. He didn't even mention the money. Maybe his mind was on other things, once he met me. Such as ' 'What is the OSS thinking of to send an absolutely unqualified airplane driver down here to do something important?"


What do I do about it? Drop the signed receipt off at the bank in an envelope? Or let him ask for it? "What twenty-five hundred?"


He'll ask for it. Probably telephone. And if he does, I can ask him how I can get together with Ettinger. I'm pretty forgetful myself, especially when I have three ounces of scotch in me before lunch.


He took the pistols from the briefcase and laid them on the chest of drawers. They were each in holsters, separately wrapped in small towels. The holsters were different from U.S. military issue. They were stiff—molded—and had a hard molded cover, fixed in place with a rather ornate catch instead of the flap used by American armed forces. And they had a pocket holding an extra magazine sewn to the long side.


The two magazines provided for each pistol were loaded. When he thumbed the cartridges out, he saw that while they were identical to the .45 cartridges he was familiar with, their head stamps (which he didn't understand) were foreign.


I guess they make their own down here. Why not?


While the pistols themselves functioned identically to the Colt he'd carried in the Pacific, they were not exact copies. He couldn't put his finger on the difference, but there was a difference.


The grip safety? The horn, or whatever it's called, looks longer. And the safety on the side of the receiver. That's shaped differently, too, I think.


What does it matter, so long as it goes off when you pull the trigger?


He stripped and then reassembled both pistols. Both were dirty and required cleaning and lubrication. And there were pits in both barrels. He used a handkerchief and a toothbrush to clean them And for lubrication he used what was left of the jar of gray U.S. Navy Medical Corps paste he was sure was Vaseline.


He had just about finished with the pistols when there was a knock at the door.


"S??"


"Tel?fono, Se?or."


That must be Nestor, who's remembered I didn't sign the expense money receipt.


"Gracias," he called. He stuffed everything back into Nestor's briefcase and then locked the briefcase in the enormous wardrobe that covered just about all of one wall. He then unlocked the door with a loud clank and went quickly downstairs to the sitting room to the nearest telephone.


The Mallins were there, Mommy, Daddy, and the Virgin Princess.


"It's a woman," Mallin said, somewhat indignantly. "She wouldn't give her name."


A woman? Ah. Nestor's secretary. I was right.


He sensed the eyes of the Virgin Princess on him. She looked either angry or hurt or both.


"What's that? She doesn't like the idea of a woman calling me?


You want to keep your Older Gentleman Friend to yourself, do you, Princess, and not share him with the other virgins at the Belgrano Athletic Club?


He went to the telephone and picked it up.


"Hola?"


"Se?or Frade?" a woman's voice asked.


"S?."


"Un momento, por favor," the woman said.


A man came on the line and asked, "Cletus? Cletus Frade?"


"Who is this?"


"This is your father."


Jesus Christ! What do I do? What do I call him? "Dad"? "Father"?


Nestor was right. He did find out that I'm here, and quickly.


"I don't know what to say," Clete said.


There was a chuckle, a deep one.


"Now that I have you on the line, neither do I. What about 'Hola, Padre'?"—Hello, Father.


"Hola, Padre," Clete said.


"Hola, Cletus. I only learned that you were in Argentina three days ago. It was impossible for me to come to Buenos Aires until today."


Clete said nothing.


"Is it an embarrassment for you if I call there?" Jorge Guillermo Frade asked.


"No, Sir. Not at all. You just caught me a little off base."


" 'Off base'? Of course, the baseball."


"Yes, Sir."


"I would like to see you, Cletus."


"Yes, Sir."


"Would tomorrow be convenient? Luncheon, perhaps, here at my home. I could send a car for you ..."


"No," Clete said. Why did I say "no"? "I have business downtown tomorrow morning. At the Alvear Palace Hotel. Could we meet there?"


"Certainly. Give me a time."


"Noon. I'll meet you in the lobby at noon."


"I will be there."


"How are you going to recognize me?"


"That will be no problem," his father said. "I will look forward to seeing you at noon. Thank you, Cletus."


The phone went dead.


I have just talked to my father. He found out I'm here and called me up. He invited me to lunch. A belated sense of being a father? Simple courtesy? Or simple curiosity. If I had a son, I'd at least want to see what he looks like.


"I'll be goddamned!" Clete heard himself say.


Nice, in front of the Mallins.


He exhaled audibly as he replaced the telephone in its cradle, then turned to face Mommy, Daddy, and the Virgin Princess. They were all looking at him with understandable curiosity.


"That was my father," Clete announced.


The looks on the faces of Mommy and Daddy changed from curiosity to surprise, or confusion. The look on the face of the Virgin Princess changed to disbelief.


"Your father?"Enrico Mallin asked, visibly baffled by the announcement. "He's here? In Buenos Aires?"


Clete was surprised at Mallin's reaction. Considering that Enrico Mallin had been doing business with Howell Petroleum for years, and had actually stayed with the old man on St. Charles Avenue, he had naturally presumed that Mallin had been treated, at least once, to the old man's standard "Oh, let me tell you about that three-star sonofabitch Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day" diatribe, and that good manners, not ignorance, were the reason why the subject of his father had not come up.


Is that yet another example of the old man's ' "The Bottom Line Is All That Matters" philosophy? He didn't want to lose Mallin as a source of revenue. And that might have happened if Mallin— or Mallin's father — had known about the bad blood between the old man and my father.


"He lives here," Clete said. "I was born here. Until just now, I thought you knew."


"No, I didn't," Mallin said. "He lives here? He's an Argentine?"


"A retired Army officer," he said.


"But you're an American," Pamela blurted.


"My mother died when I was very young," Clete said. "I was raised by my grandfather and my aunt and uncle in the States."


"I see," Mallin said.


"If you were born here," the Virgin Princess announced, "and if your father is an Argentinean, then you're an Argentinean." She seemed pleased.


"No. I'm an American citizen."


"No, you're not," the Virgin Princess insisted.


"I can't imagine..." Mallin said. "How is it... ?"


"I've never met my father," Clete said.


"Henry, this is really none of our business," Pamela said.


"Who is your father?" Mallin asked, ignoring her. "You say he's a retired Army officer? What's his name?"


"Jorge Guillermo Frade," Clete said, hearing his grandfather's acidic pronunciation as he spoke. "El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade."


"My God, he's a friend of mine!" Mallin exclaimed. "And, Cletus, if you don't know this, he is not just 'a retired Army officer.' He's one of the most prominent men in the country."


"So I've been told," Clete said.


"You've never met him?" Pamela asked.


"There is bad blood between my grandfather and my father."


"How sad," Pamela said. "But—I couldn't help but overhearing—you're going to meet him tomorrow?"


"Yes, I am."


"He's Alicia Valdez's uncle," the Virgin Princess said. "She introduced me to him on Independence Day. At the reception at the officers' club."


"Who?" Pamela asked..


"Alicia," the Virgin Princess said.


"I really wish I had known all this," Mallin said. "I can't imagine what your father is thinking. You here, in my home, and..."


"If I have in any way embarrassed you, I'm sorry," Clete said. "But I... I simply presumed you knew."


"You haven't embarrassed us," the Virgin Princess said, walking across the room to him and touching his arm. "Has he, Mother?"


"Of course he hasn't," Pamela said. "It was a simple misunderstanding."


"When I see my father tomorrow, I will make sure he understands that you didn't know my relationship to him," Clete said.


"Funny," the Virgin Princess said, rubbing his arm and looking up into his eyes, "you don't look like an Argentinean."


Clete averted his eyes, which meant that they fell on the V of her dress, and into the valley between her breasts.


She's no older than Beth. And her feelings for you are as innocent as Beth's. Remember that.


"But you are, you know," the Virgin Princess went on, her fingers still on his arm. "An Argentinean. It was a question in a political science exaMi?ation."


"No, I'm not, Princess," Clete said firmly.


Pamela laughed.


"Princess? Why do you call her 'Princess'?" Pamela asked, smiling.


"Yes, why do you?" the Virgin Princess asked.


"Princesses are beautiful young girls, adored by their parents, who live in a castle like this one, waiting for their knight in shining armor to ride up on his horse," Clete said.


"I don't think I like the 'young girl' part. And why should my knight have to wear shining armor? Why not cowboy boots?"


"Dorotea, you're embarrassing Clete," Pamela protested.


"Am I embarrassing you, Clete?"


"Yes, you are."


"You can go to hell," the Virgin Princess said.


"Ignore her, Clete," Pamela said, one adult to another. "All of her friends think it's chic, and makes them seem mature, to swear like sailors."




[THREE]


Office of the Managing Director


Sociedad Mercantil de Importation de Productos


Petroliferos


21st Floor, Edificio Kavanagh


Calle Florida 1065


Buenos Aires, Argentina


1030 27 November 1942


"Excuse me, Senor Mallin," his secretary said, walking to his desk and extending a visiting card to him. "This gentleman says it is quite important that he see you." Mallin took the card and looked at it.




Alejandro Bernardo Martin




Teniente Coronel


Ministerio de Defense




Goddamn it! I knew something like this was going to happen!


"Ask him to come in, please," he said.


Martin, in a tweed jacket and gray flannel trousers, came into the office smiling and held his hand out.


"I very much appreciate your time, Se?or Mallin," he said. "I know that you're a very busy man."


"I always have time for the Ministry of Defense, mi Coronel," Mallin said, shaking his hand. "May I offer you a coffee?"


"If it would not be an imposition?"


"Not at all."


Martin walked to the window.


"What a splendid view."


"It may not be modest of me to say so, mi Coronel—but I say this as a tenant, not as the owner—I think it is the best view in all Buenos Aires."


Martin waited until the coffee had been served and Mallin's secretary had left them alone. Then he reached in his pocket, took the leather folder which held his Internal Security credentials, and extended it to Mallin.


Internal Security. Goddamn it, now what?


"I see," Mallin said. "And how may I assist Internal Security?"


Martin noted the signs of nervousness in Mallin's eyes and


body language.


I wonder why? There's nothing in the files to suggest that he's anything but what he purports to be, a well-educated, wealthy, successful importer of petroleum.


Martin had taken another look at Mallin's dossier just before driving to the Kavanagh Building: He had done his active military service honorably, but without distinction, and had no more to do with the military afterward than the law required. He was friendly, but not intimate, with members of the major political factions— a skillful tightrope walker. His only recorded violation of the laws of God and/or the Republic of Argentina—aside from an extraordinary number of citations for illegal parking—was to maintain one Maria-Teresa Alberghoni, twenty-one, in Apartment 4D at 2910 Avenue Canning in Palermo. And Martin would have been surprised if Mallin did not maintain a Mi?a.


"Let me begin by saying that the BIS does not really eat babies for breakfast, Se?or Mallin, and there is no Tower of London here in Buenos Aires where we chop heads off."


"Well, I'm glad to hear that."


"But we do try to keep an eye on things, find answers to questions which interest us."


"Of course."


"We are interested, frankly, in your houseguest, Se?or—or should I say 'Mister'?—Cletus Howell Frade. Could you tell me what he's doing here?"


Be very careful, Enrico. This could be a very dangerous conversation.


"You are aware, mi Coronel, that SMIPP, in addition to other associations, of course, represents the interests of Howell Petroleum (Venezuela) in Argentina?"


Martin nodded.


"Howell Petroleum (Venezuela) is a subsidiary of Howell Petroleum, which has its offices in New Orleans, Louisiana. Se?or Howell, my houseguest, is the grandson of Cletus Howell, the owner. When I was in the United States, I was a guest in his house..."


He left the rest of the sentence unspoken. Martin would certainly understand reciprocal hospitality. A nod of Martin's head suggested that he did.


"As to what he's doing here: The United States government has somehow concluded that certain petroleum products—Howell Petroleum Products—are being illegally diverted. To the Germans or the Italians, presumably. They are of course sold to us with the understanding that they will be consumed in Argentina and not transshipped anywhere."


"And is that happening? Are there products being transshipped?"


"Not to my knowledge. For one thing, it would be quite difficult. The Americans know what we consumed before the war, and they have been unwilling to raise the amount of product shipped to us, although our demand has risen. If I wanted to, I would not be able to divert any product. In fact, my clients are increasingly unhappy that they can't get what they need. Cutting that amount would be simply impossible, since the government knows to the last liter how much product I receive."


"Nevertheless, the American government has the idea that— what was the term you used? 'product'?—is being diverted, and Mr. Frade's presence in Argentina has something to do with that?"


"As he explained it to me, he will verify to the U.S. Embassy that Howell product is in fact entering our supply channels and is not being diverted."


"Well, that explains his presence here, doesn't it?" Martin said. "Meanwhile, I have a couple of other questions in my mind that probably fall into the category of personal curiosity, rather than official queries."


"I don't quite understand."


"I was wondering how a young man, a man his age, in apparently good health, could avoid military service in the United States. In wartime, that's seems a little odd."


"As I understand it, mi Coronel, he was called up for training as a pilot, and then was physically disqualified and discharged."


"That happened to a cousin of mine when my class was called," Martin said. "He served three weeks."


"I think he finds it rather embarrassing," Mallin said. "That it somehow makes him less a man."


"It will also keep him from getting killed. In time, he will probably decide he was lucky."


"When my class was called up," Mallin said, "I didn't want to go. I was in love. But on the other hand, I was afraid that I would not pass the physical exaMi?ation."


"Precisely," Martin said, smiling. "And my last question, which obviously has nothing to do with internal security, is why Mister Frade is staying with you, and not with his father."


I knew he'd come to that. Of course that would interest BIS. Anything to do with Frade interests them, and now a son that nobody's ever heard of suddenly shows up, and instead of staying with his father or another member of the family, he stays with me. As if he doesn't want it known, or el Coronel Frade doesn't want it known, that there is a son, or that he's here. I would be suspicious of that myself.


"Well, for one thing, el Coronel Frade wasn't in town when young Frade arrived," Mallin said, hoping he sounded more at ease than he felt. "He was at his estancia, I believe. And for another, I welcomed the opportunity to repay the hospitality of Mr. Howell."


"I have heard—what, 'gossip'?—that there is some problem between father and son. Would you feel awkward talking about that?"


"I don't know anything about that," Mallin said. "I would suspect that it is, as you suggested, simply gossip. I do know that young Frade and his father are having lunch today."


"Oh, really?"


"At the Alvear Palace, if that's of interest to you."


"Only in that it puts the gossip to rest," Martin said. He stood up. "I won't take any more of your time, Se?or Mallin. Thank you very much for seeing me."


"It was my pleasure, mi Coronel," Mallin said, walking with Martin to the door.


"May I make a suggestion, Se?or Mallin?"


"Of course."


"I would suggest that you not mention to Mr. Frade, or his father, that we had this little chat. Internal Security has an unfortunate—and as far as I am concerned, unjustified—reputation. You have more than satisfactorily answered both my official queries and my personal curiosity. I can see no point in causing either of the gentlemen in question undue concern. Can you?''


"I take your point, mi Coronel."


"Thank you again," Martin said, smiled, shook Mallin's hand, and walked out of the office.


Enrico Mallin walked to the window overlooking the Rio de la Plata and rested his forehead on the cool glass.


He went over the entire conversation in his mind. He could think of nothing he said that was either untrue or could cause difficulty. But that did not alter the underlying unpleasant truth, which was that Internal Security was interested in his houseguest, and by association, in him.


Everybody knows that el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade is deeply involved with the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos. Will Internal Security now suspect that because I am close enough to Frade to entertain his son in my home, I am also closely connected with Grupo de Oficiales Unidos?




God, if I had known who his father was, I wouldn't have had him at the house for so much as a cocktail!


Goddamn the old man for not telling me who his grandson is!


That could have been innocent, of course. A natural reluctance to keep intimate family business private. But Clete should have said something; after all, he was a guest in my house! He should have known— of course he knew— that we would be interested to know who his father is. He didn't tell us until he had to! Why?


And I don't like the way he looks at Dorotea, either. Or the way she looks at him. How dare he call her "Princess"?


Well, he'll be gone tomorrow, or the day after, and after that, 1 will simply, tactfully, increase the distance between us.




Chapter Nine




[ONE]


Edificio Kavanagh


Calle Florida 1065


Buenos Aires, Argentina


1105 27 November 1942


El Teniente Coronel Martin found a pay telephone in a cigar-and-candy kiosk around the corner from the Edificio Kavanagh and called his office.


El Comandante Carlos Habanzo answered. It was not a Comandante's function to answer the phone; there were enlisted men and junior officers to do that. But in this case Martin decided to say nothing. For one thing, he was aware that he had been finding fault with just about everything Habanzo was doing; and for another, he wanted to speak to him.


"Habanzo, I need two good men—well-dressed, who won't look like whores in church—to be in the lobby of the Alvear Palace, with cameras, from eleven-thirty. They are to surveil a meeting between el Coronel Jorge Guillermo..."


"Mi Coronel, I regret that we have no one available at the moment"


"What do you mean, no one's available?"


"Mi Coronel, you reviewed and approved the assignment list this morning. I can, of course, call two men back from the pistol range, but there is no way they can reach the Alvear Palace by eleven-thirty."


"Comandante Habanzo, are you wearing a clean shirt?"


"S?, mi Coronel."


"The lobby of the Alvear Palace Hotel from eleven-thirty, Habanzo. Do not say hello to me. We'll dispense with photography."


"S?, mi Coronel. Mi Coronel, I could bring a camera."


"That won't be necessary. Just be there. You will be able to recognize young Frade?"


"Of course, mi Coronel."




[TWO]


1728 Avenida Coronel Diaz


Palermo. Buenos Aires


0945 27 November 1942


El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade was already awake and out of bed, bathed, shaved, and sitting, dressed in a summer-weight red silk dressing robe, in an armchair reading yesterday's La Nation ( The most conservative of Buenos Aires' daily newspapers.) when Antonio, his butler, wheeled in the breakfast cart.


"Buenos dias, mi Coronel."


"I was wondering what happened to you," Frade said. He dropped the newspaper on the floor, walked to the cart, and lifted silver covers from several dishes on it.


"It is quarter to ten, mi Coronel," Antonio said, which was both an announcement of the time and a statement that breakfast was being served at the time it was supposed to be served.


Frade looked at his watch.


"So it is," he said. "I think melon and ham, Antonio, and a couple of eggs. Presuming they are neither raw nor hard-boiled."


"Four minutes exactly, mi Coronel," Antonio said. "I boiled them myself."


"That's what I was afraid of," Frade said.


Antonio began moving items from the breakfast cart to a table, as Frade picked up a chair and carried it to the table. He sat down and watched as Antonio poured orange juice and then coffee, and then began to cut the meat from a cantaloupe.


Frade picked up the orange juice.


"And what are we going to wear today, mi Coronel?"


"A suit. I have an important lunch."


"The double-breasted gray?"


"That should do," Frade said. "With one of the new shirts."


"S?, mi Coronel."


"And for a tie?"


"Lay several out," Frade said.


"S?, mi Coronel. And the black wing tips?"


Frade nodded.


"The Se?ora asks that you call when you have time," Antonio said. "At her home."


"Here? She's in town?"


"S?, mi Coronel."


"The Se?ora will have to wait. If she calls again, please tell her I will try to call her this afternoon. And while you're on the phone, call the Centro Naval (Literally, Navy Center. An officer's club serving both services on Calle Florida.) and tell them I may require my table for luncheon."


"For how many guests, mi Coronel?"


"One."


"S?, mi Coronel," Antonio said as he picked up a silver coffeepot and refilled el Coronels cup. "You will require the car when, mi Coronel?"


"My appointment is for twelve, at the Alvear Palace."


"Eleven-thirty, mi Coronel?"


"A little earlier, I think. I don't want to be late."


"S?, mi Coronel."


At ten forty-five, when el Coronel descended the wide marble staircase to the entrance foyer and looked out the window, his car was not standing before the door.


He turned and went down a corridor into the kitchen. Antonio was sitting at the kitchen table with the housekeeper and one of the maids, drinking coffee.


"Mi Coronel, you said eleven-thirty," he said with reproof in his voice, as he stood up.


"It is not a problem," Frade said, walked past him, and passed through a door leading to the basement garage.


Enrico was there, his suit jacket off, his shirt sleeves rolled up, polishing the hood of the Buick station wagon. He was carrying a .45 automatic in a shoulder holster.


"Antonio said eleven-thirty, mi Coronel," he said.


"Better to be early than late," Frade said.


"Where are we going, mi Coronel?"


"We are not going anywhere. I will not need you this morning, Enrico."


“Mi Coronel?"


"I am going to the Alvear Plaza, and then to the Centro Naval. And I wish to be alone.'


Enrico was visibly unhappy with this announcement.


"Mi Coronel..."


"Are the keys in the Horche?"


'S?, mi Coronel. Mi Coronel, I can wait in the car."


"Open the doors like a good fellow, Enrico," Frade said, and then added, "Enrico, I will be all right."


Enrico expressed his displeasure with Frade by showing him a stony face as he opened the door to the Horche, then went to open the garage doors. Frade started the engine, let it warm a moment, and then drove out of the garage and headed downtown.


He decided to leave the Horche at his sister's house on Avenue Alvear. It was only two squares from the hotel, the walk would do him good, and inside her tall fence (there is no good reason I can't close the gates myself) it would be safe from both the idiot drivers on the street and the greasy hands of the curious. And with just a little bit of luck, she wouldn't even know it was there.


The Horche was important to him. He truly believed that he indulged himself in few personal luxuries; and if he was extraordinarily sensitive about his 1940 Horche droptop touring sedan, so be it. In his judgment, the Horche was the finest automobile in the world. Certainly better than the Cadillac or the Mercedes-Benz or the Rolls-Royce or the Packard, and far superior to every lesser car he had ever driven. His was one of the very last Horches to leave the factory, before the factory started to make trucks or cannon or whatever for Hitler's military.


It was built like a battleship would be built if Swiss watchmakers built warships. It not only handled beautifully and was powered by a smooth, very strong engine, but was beautifully furnished inside, with fine leather seats and gnarled walnut on both the dashboard and in the passenger compartment. With reasonable care, it would last not only through the war—however long that lasted—but indefinitely thereafter. He personally supervised its care, and often did the work himself.


The problem was little things. If there was a fender-bender, he had absolutely no way to replace a bumper, a headlight ring, or one of the clever little lights that sat on the fenders and indicated (controlled by a switch on the dash) which way the driver intended to turn. There were simply no parts available in Buenos Aires.


Therefore, it seemed entirely understandable to him that he never permitted anyone to drive it but himself, and on rare, absolutely unavoidable occasions, Enrico. First of all, he was as good a driver as he knew—fast but skillful, and thus safe. Secondly, no one else could be expected to share his full appreciation of the mechanical and aesthetic superiority of the Horche, and therefore no one else could be expected to handle the car with the respect it deserved. He had no intention of entrusting the Horche to one of the Alvear Palace Hotel's bellmen to park.


Leaving it at his sister's house seemed a perfectly satisfactory solution to the problem of driving the Horche downtown to meet Cletus.


Luck was not with him. Two of Beatrice's servants were adjusting cobblestones in the drive, and it wasn't until too late that he saw Beatrice herself, in a mourning-black dress, standing there watching. Or believing she was supervising.


Her face lit up when she saw him; her eyes were at once bright and vacant.


Mother of Christ, she's still taking those pills! What the hell is the matter with her husband?


"Jorge, how nice!" she said as he stepped out of the Horche.


He walked to her and she raised her cheek to be kissed.


"I didn't expect to see you," he said. "All I wanted to do was use your drive to park the car."


"The cobblestones are washing loose," Beatrice said, pointing. "Ricardo thinks that water is coming under the drive out of the drainpipes from the roof."


One of the workmen, hearing his name, looked up and smiled at Frade.


"Buenos dias, mi Coronel."


"Buenos dias," Frade said. "Beatrice, you'll have to excuse me. I have a business appointment at noon." She looked at him with empty eyes and a smile. "At the Alvear," he added, nodding down Avenue Alvear.


Beatrice put a hand to her bosom and lifted a lapel watch.


Damn, she has a watch. I'm surprised she knows what day of the week it is, but she has a watch.


"It's eleven-fifteen," Beatrice announced. "You have forty-five minutes. It will take you two minutes to walk to the Alvear. We have time for a coffee."


"It's an important meeting. I don't want to be late."


"You have time. And I have so much to tell you about the arrangements."


She took his arm and led him into the house, to the sitting room.


"Ambassador von Lutzenberger has been to see Humberto—'*


"I know," Frade interrupted her. "He called me first, and I suggested he call Humberto."


Alberto came into the library.


"We will have two coffees, please, Alberto. And if mere are any candied orange slices... el Coronel likes candied orange slices; he has since we were children."


"S?, Se?ora," Alberto said, and left.


I don't like candied orange slices. I haven't liked them since I was fourteen or fifteen. Good God!


"Ambassador von Lutzenberger told Humberto that Jorge is to be decorated, posthumously, by the German government," Beatrice said.


"He mentioned that to me."


"And—I thought it would be nice, I'm trying to work it out with Monsignor Kelly—do you know him?"


Frade shook his head no.


"Very nice man. He handles important ceremonies for the Archbishop."


"I haven't had the pleasure."


"Well, I thought it would be nice to have that ceremony—they pin the decoration to the flag, which will be covering the casket— outside Our Lady of Pilar. On the plaza, before the Archbishop celebrates the high requiem mass. Or do you think it Would be better to do it after the mass, and before we take the casket to Recoleta?"


Has it occurred to you, my poor darling, that you are talking about a decoration to be awarded in the name of a mass murderer? For political reasons, not because poor Jorge did anything valorous?


"If you want my opinion, Beatrice, I would say that sort of decision would best be left to the Monsignor. You said his name was Kelly?"


"Yes. Monsignor Kelly. A fine and holy man."


"Why don't you tell him to do what he thinks is best?"


"You're right, of course," she said. "Have I told you about the reception?"


"No. You haven't."


"I was wondering... We'll have it here, of course. It was Jorge's home. Getting people in and out of their cars will be a problem. Especially if it rains. Otherwise, I suppose they could park their cars by Our Lady of Pilar and walk here from Recoleta. But if it rains, that would pose a problem, of course."


"What were you wondering, Beatrice?"


"Mommy's punch bowl. Do you have it here in the city? Or is it at the estancia?"


Mother's punch bowl?


It was enormous. He suddenly remembered that he and Beatrice were whipped as children after filling it with a litter of nearly grown Llewellyn setters.


"I was thinking it would look so nice," Beatrice explained, "filled with flowers, if we put it in the center of the foyer. We could move in one of the tables from the library and put it on that."


"I think it's here," Frade said. "If it's not... if it's at San Pedro y San Pablo, I'll have it brought to you."


"Just the punch bowl. Not the cups."


"Just the punch bowl."


"You are always so kind to me, Jorge. I don't know what I'd do without you."


"Don't be silly, Beatrice."


Alberto appeared with the coffee on a silver tray, a cortado for his mistress, and a cafe doble for Frade.


"Everything for the invitations is ready, except the date. We won't know the date, of course, until the General Belgrano arrives. Humberto spoke with someone at the shipping company ..."


"L.M.A.E.," Frade said without thinking—Lineas Mar?timas de Argentina y Europa.


"Yes," Beatrice said, ever so genteelly letting him know she didn't like the interruption. "L.M.A.E. The General Belgrano sailed November eighth, so it's due here around the first of the month. In a week or so. The casket is to be brought here. Humberto wanted to put it in the library, but I said there will be so many people that we'll have to put it in the foyer, to keep the traffic moving, so to speak. Don't you agree?"


If I don't escape from here in the next thirty seconds, I am going insane!


"Yes, Beatrice, I agree."


He looked at his watch.


"Beatrice, I must go."


"You haven't finished your coffee."


"I drink too much coffee. It's bad for my nerves. I can't sleep."


"Those Brazilian cigars of yours are what keeps you awake,"


Beatrice proclaimed. "I read an article..."


"Beatrice, I'll have the punch bowl sent over to you as soon as I can; within the next several days."


"And there's one more thing," Beatrice said.


"Yes?"


"There's nobody in your house but you, so I wondered if it would be a terrible inconvenience for you to put up Captain von Wachtstein for a while, at least until the funeral is over."


"Captain who?"


"Captain Hans-Peter von Wachtstein. He is the officer bringing Jorge home. Ambassador von Lutzenberger said that he comes from a fine Pomeranian family; and that his father is a Major General. I don't think he would be comfortable here, Jorge, and we certainly can't put him into a hotel."


In that case, let the goddamned German ambassador take care of him!


"Certainly, Beatrice. I'll tell Se?ora Pellano to set up an apartment for him in Uncle Guillermo's."


"The Guest House?" she asked, surprise and hurt in her voice. "Not in your house?"


Beatrice, for the love of God!


"I think he would be more comfortable in the Guest House. My house will probably be full of senior officers."


"Yes, of course it will," she replied, after considering that. "The Guest House will be better, won't it, for the Captain?"


"I think so. I will arrange for an officer of suitable rank to be with him."


"Muy bueno,” Beatrice said, then changed the subject: "I have the proofs, or whatever they're called, of the invitations. Would you like to see them?"


"I'd love to, Beatrice, but I have to go."


He kissed her and fled. She called his name as he was passing through the front door, but he pretended he didn't hear. He walked quickly down the Avenue Alvear toward the Alvear Palace Hotel.


El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade did not believe in drinking during the day. A glass or two of wine with lunch was not drinking, of course, and a glass or two of beer in the afternoon never hurt anyone; but he often said that he learned as a young officer that drinking spirits during the day caused nothing but trouble.


Right now, after that pathetic scene with Beatrice, he wanted a drink, a good stiff drink, very badly. He told himself that he would nobly resist that temptation, of course. He didn't want his son to smell alcohol on his breath at their first meeting and get the wrong idea.


As he waited for two women to negotiate the revolving door to the lobby of the Alvear Palace, he glanced at his watch. It was eleven forty-five—specifically, 11:46:40.


He looked around the lobby, in case Cletus might have arrived early.


No. He will arrive late. Stylishly late. Five or ten minutes late. I have plenty of time for a drink. There is no reason at all why I should not have a quick one.


I would not be at all surprised if Beatrice's emotional difficulties are contagious. I pity poor Humberto.


He walked up to the bar. It was crowded.


I wonder what work these people do that allows them to come in here at noon and drink whiskey.


He found an empty stool near the end of the bar and slipped onto it. One of the bartenders came to him immediately.


"S?, Mi Coronel?"


The man sitting to his right, on the last stool of the bar, had a bottle of Jack Daniel's American whiskey sitting in front of him.


If you must take a drink for medicinal reasons in the middle of the day, you might as well do it right. Bourbon whiskey was not at all subtle. When you drink American bourbon whiskey, you know instantly you are drinking.


El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade pointed at the bottle of American bourbon whiskey, then held up two fingers, meaning a double. He pointed at the ice bucket sitting in front of the man next to him and shook his index finger. No ice. He pointed to the water pitcher, then to a small glass, signaling he wanted water on the side.


"S?, mi Coronel," the bartender said, smiling, and made the drink.


He picked up the glass of bourbon and took a healthy swallow. He felt a burning sensation in his mouth and then in his throat. Warmth began to spread in his stomach.


Precisely what I needed. Good decision, the American bourbon.


He set the glass down and almost immediately picked it up and took another swallow.


It gave him the same reaction, except the burning sensation didn't seem as harsh or as enduring.


I will ask the barman for a slice of lemon, and eat it, pulp and rind, just before I go upstairs. I don't want Cletus imagining the reek of his father's alcohol fumes when he recalls the first time in his adult life he ever met him.


He sensed the attention of the gentleman sitting beside him, and turned to glower at him. It was no one's business but his own if he wanted to take a couple of quick swallows of American bourbon whiskey.


"Excuse me, Sir," the man asked in Spanish. "But are you Colonel Frade?"


"S?, Se?or. Yo soy el Coronel Frade," Frade said, the words coming out before he could stop them.


"My name is Frade too," Clete said.


"I know full well what your name is," Frade snapped. He was horrified at the sound of his own words, but they just kept coming. "You were supposed to meet me in the lobby at noon."


Frade saw anger form in Clete's eyes, in the tightening of his lips, in a faint reddening of his cheeks.


God, what have I done?


Then Clete's lips loosened, and turned into a smile.


"I see that I'm not the only one who needed a little liquid courage for the great confrontation."


"Is that how you view it, as a 'great confrontation'?"


"Isn't that what it is?"


The barman appeared, asking with the inclination of his head whether Clete wanted another drink. Clete pushed his empty glass across the bar to him.


"Do you customarily drink whiskey at the noon hour?" Frade asked, and was again horrified at the sound of his words.


What in God's name is wrong with me?


"Only when about to confront a great confrontation," Clete said. "What about you?"


God, he's insolent! No one talks to me like that! Now watch what you say!


"Actually," Frade said, "it's not you. I just had an unpleasant confrontation with my sister. Your aunt Beatrice."


"I didn't know I had an Aunt Beatrice," Clete said quietly, and then asked flippantly, "And Aunt Beatrice drove you to drink whiskey at the noon hour?"


I'd like to slap his face! I'd like to punch him square in the nose! How dare he talk in that manner about Beatrice?


And again the words came out of control.


"She's ill, Cletus. Emotionally disturbed," Frade heard himself say. "She's on something, God only knows what, that her psychiatrist prescribed."


"I'm sorry," Clete said. "I didn't know ..."


"You had no way of knowing. You didn't even know she exists," Frade said.


"No, Sir, I didn't."


"Beatrice lost her son, her only son, your cousin Jorge," Frade heard himself saying.


"I'm sorry," Clete said.


"He was killed at Stalingrad. Beatrice has... been disturbed since."


I had a cousin in the German Army?Clete thought Jesus H. Christ! The Old Man was right. They're all Nazis down here!


"Stalingrad?What was he doing at Stalingrad?"


"He was assigned as an observer," Frade said. "He was not supposed to be at Stalingrad, much less involved in anything that would place him in danger. He gave me his word to that effect before I agreed to his assignment."


Well, there were for sure no Argentine "observers" on Guadalcanal. What did he say? "Before I agreed to his assignment"?


"Before you agreed to his assignment?"


Frade met his son's eyes.


"I have a certain influence within the Argentinean Army," he said. "Jorge would not have been given that assignment without my approval."


"And now you're blaming yourself because he was killed?"


"Obviously, to a certain degree, I feel responsible."


"What was he? What rank?"


"A captain."


"People get killed in wars. If he didn't know that, he shouldn't have been a captain."


Frade looked at Clete, thinking: That's damned cold-blooded. When I told myself the same thing, I was ashamed of myself.


"How was he killed?"


"As I understand it, he was flying a Storch on a reconnaissance mission, and was shot down."


He was a pilot?Clete thought.


"He was flying a what?"


"A Fieseler Storch. A small, high-wing, two-place observation airplane," Frade explained. "Something like the Piper Cub, except larger and more powerful."


Clete shook his head, signifying he had never heard of the Storch.


"What ever happened to your plans, Cletus, to become a pilot? A Marine pilot?"


How the hell did he hear about that?


Clete looked at his father. For the first time, their eyes met.


I don't want to lie to this man.


"I was discharged about three weeks ago," Clete said. "They found a heart murmur. You can't be a Marine Aviator with a heart murmur."


"They discovered it when you were in training?"


Clete met his father's eyes and saw genuine concern in them. And realized that he could not lie to him.


"No."


"You saw active service, then?" his father asked.


"They discovered the heart condition when I came back from the Pacific. From Guadalcanal."


"You flew at Guadalcanal?"


"Yes. And I was at Midway, too."


"I didn't know that," Frade said. "We read about Midway and Guadalcanal in the newspapers, of course. And there have been newsreels in the cinema."


The father saw the newsreels again in his mind's eye. American fighter planes, and their young pilots, rising into the sky from a jungle airstrip.


Did I see Cletus? Was he one of those tired-looking young men?


He was one of them, whether or not I saw him. And that explains why he can be so cold-blooded about Jorge. He is a soldier. He has the right to think that way, and say what he thinks.


"What about your heart? A murmur, you said?"


"Nothing serious," Clete said. "It just disqualified me from flying for the Marines. Thank you for your service, and don't let the doorknob hit you in the ass on your way out."


He's bitter. That's understandable.


"Otherwise you weren't injured?"


"I got dinged a couple of times. Nothing serious."


Spoken like an officer. And why not? The blood of Pueyrred?n runs in his veins.


"Would it be impolite of me to ask what you are doing in Argentina?"


Clete met his father's eyes. "No. Why should it be? I'm working for my grandfather..."


"And how is Mr. Howell? Well, I hope?"


"Yes, he is, thank you," Clete said. The Old Man would shit a brick if he knew the two of us are sitting here like this.


"And your uncle James and your aunt Martha? They are well, I trust?"


"Uncle Jim died when I was in the Pacific. A heart attack."


"I am so sorry," Frade said.


He sounds as if he means that.


"And my aunt Martha is well, thank you."


Frade nodded. "You say you are working for your grandfather?"


"The U.S. government seems to think that somebody down here is diverting Howell petroleum products to the Germans. I was sent down to make sure they aren't."


"I can't believe Enrico Mallin would be involved in that kind of thing," Frade said. "Not only is he an honorable man, but I'm sure his sympathies lie with the English and the Americans in this war."


Well, I guess I am a pretty good liar, after all. He swallowed that hook, line, and sinker. And where do your sympathies lie, Dad?


"I don't think he is either," Clete said. "But the deal the Old Man worked out with the government meant sending me down here to make sure he isn't."


"I am glad you are here," Frade said. "To finally meet you."


"Yeah, me too," Clete said.


"Perhaps there will be an opportunity for us to know one another," Frade said.


"Yeah," Clete said. "Maybe there will be."


"But the immediate problem before us is lunch," Frade said. He pushed his glass of bourbon away from him. "I have had enough whiskey."


He beckoned, rather imperiously, for the bartender to bring the bill. When it came, he scrawled his name across it.


"Gracias, mi Colonel," the barman said.


"The Centro Naval—the Navy Officers' Club—is not very far from here. They usually serve a very nice lunch," Frade said. "How does that sound, Cletus?"


"That sounds fine."


"Well, then, I suggest we go," Frade said.


Clete slid off the barstool and followed his father up the circular staircase to the lobby. They were halfway across the lobby when his father suddenly veered to the right, toward the concierge's desk.


It looks like he's chasing that guy.


Frade caught up with a man who pretended, not too successfully, to be both delighted and surprised to see him. They shook hands, and then Frade propelled him across the lobby to where Clete stood.


"Coronel, I want you to meet my son. Cletus, this is Teniente Coronel Martin, of the Internal Security Service."


Teniente Coronel Martin could not conceal his discomfort.


"How do you do?" he said in English.


"A sus ?rdenes, mi Coronel," Clete replied.


"Welcome to Argentina," Martin said, still in English.


"Thank you," Clete said, switching to English.


There was a long, awkward silence.


"Well, it was very nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Frade," Martin said. "And to see you, mi Coronel."


Frade nodded coldly but didn't speak.


Martin walked out of the lobby into the driveway.


"Who was that?" Clete asked.


"An officer of our intelligence service," Frade said. "The Bureau of Internal Security. It was from him that I learned you were here."


"Oh?"


"He was naturally curious why you were staying with Se?or Mallin and not me."


"I'm surprised he knew about me at all," Clete said.


"I thought it a bit odd myself," Frade said. "Unless, of course, you're not here for the reason you gave me."


"I don't know what you mean," Clete said. "I'm here because my grandfather needed someone down here, and I speak Spanish and needed a job."


He knows I'm lying. Whether because I'm not a very good liar, or because he's put two and two together. Whatever else he is, this man, my father, is no fool.


The question is, where does that leave us?


"You speak Spanish very well," his father said, dropping the subject. "Shall we go?"


Frade led Clete through the revolving door to the entrance driveway before he remembered where the Horche was. Taking Cletus there would be unwise. Beatrice would almost certainly see Mm.


"I have the car parked a block or so away," Frade said.


"All right."


"Why don't you just wait in front for me."


"I don't mind walking."


"Please wait for me in front," Frade said. It was unquestionably an order.


"All right," Clete said.


Clete watched his father march down Avenue Alvear. Then nature called. He went back into the hotel and down the stairs again to the men's room. An attendant patiently waited for him to relieve his bladder, men stood by with soap, a towel, a comb, cologne, and an open hand.


When Clete reached the entranceway again, his father was already there, standing impatiently by the open door of a magnificent, gleaming, four-door convertible. A Horche, according to the grille.


What the hell is a Horche?


"I wondered what happened to you," Frade said.


"That's one hell of a car," Clete said.


"I rather like it myself," Frade said. And then he heard himself say, as he extended the keys to his son, "Would you like to drive?"




[THREE]


Centro Naval


Avenida Florida y Avenida C6rdoba


Buenos Aires


1325 27 November 1942


"I don't usually take spirits at lunch," el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade announced solemnly as he waved Clete into a leather-upholstered chair in the dark paneled bar of the Officers' Club, "but this is an occasion, no? Our 'great confrontation'?"


He turned to the white-jacketed waiter who had trailed them from the door. "Dos Jack Daniel's, dobles, por favor, Luis."


Clete looked around the room. He saw no women. Most of the men were in civilian clothing, but something about them suggested they were officers. Not officers, he corrected himself,


brass. Hardly anybody in here is my age. Lieutenants and captains not welcome, and please keep off the grass on your way out.


He looked at his father. His father was making a visual sweep of the room. He gave a curt nod of recognition to a few men, smiled faintly at others, but at two in particular he smiled widely and nodded his head as if in approval.


As soon as the whiskey was delivered, while the waiter was carrying out the little routine of overflowing the silver shot glass on a handle, a procession of brass making their manners came to the table.


The introductions followed the same pattern:


"Coronel, I have the honor to present my son, Cletus, late Teniente of the air service of the U.S. Marine Corps, who has been medically retired after service in the Pacific at Guadalcanal. He is here on business, which I hope will take a long time to complete."


Like blowing up a neutral ship in your river.


Once, his father rose to his feet, and Clete followed him.


"Mi General," his father said, "I have the honor to present my son, Cletus, late Teniente of the air service of the U.S. Marine Corps, who has been medically retired after service in the Pacific at Guadalcanal. He is here on a visit. Cletus, I had the honor to succeed el General Sussman as Colonel Commanding the Hussares de Pueyrred6n."


"A sus ?rdenes, mi General," Clete said.


The introduction seemed to both please and surprise the General.


"You served at Guadalcanal, Teniente?"


"S?, mi General."


General Sussman examined him closely, and nodded approvingly.


"I am very happy to make your acquaintance," he said in somewhat awkward English. "Welcome to Argentina."


I don't think you would say that if you knew why I am here, General.


"Gracias, mi General."


Frade waited until the General was out of earshot, then announced, "Coronel Sahovaler—the fat, bald one—succeeded me at the regiment. I should have introduced him that way."


Dear old Dad,Clete realized, is half in the bag. And if he is, you almost certainly are. So watch yourself.


That triggered another thought, a somewhat alarming one: His only reaction when he realized I was lying to him was to change the subject, and then let me drive that car of his. Is it possible that he intends to get me drunk to see what he can worm out of me? Of course it's possible. It's even likely.


Without asking, the bartender delivered another Jack Daniel's doble long before either of their glasses was empty.


"I think we should carry these into the dining room and put something into our stomachs," Frade announced somewhat thickly after draining the first drink and picking up the second. "As you may have noticed, the Portenos are very dangerous drivers. One must be in full control of one's faculties to survive."


The booze flows like water—if that's really whiskey he's drinking— and he wants me to think he's drunk. Of course, he's trying to get me drunk enough to confide in him, father-to-son. Well, why are you surprised? The Old Man told you often enough he's a three-star sonofabitch. Well, screw you, Dad. I may be an amateur at this business, but I can not stupid.


"Excuse me?" Clete asked politely, smiling, as he rose to his feet. "The what? Portenos?"


"Natives of Buenos Aires," his father explained. "As opposed to those who come from the country. They drive like madmen. They seem to believe that an automobile has two speeds, on and off."


Clete chuckled.


The headwaiter of the dining room followed them to their table.


"Edmundo," el Coronel ordered, "see if they can find something nice, a Beaujolais perhaps, in my stock."


"S?, mi Coronel."


And now wine, on top of the whiskey,Clete thought.


"This is an occasion. I have the honor to introduce my son, Cletus, late Teniente of the air service of the Marine Corps of the USA."


And fatherly pride and charm on top of the wine. Mi Coronel, mi Papa, you are a clever sonofabitch, aren't you? What I would like to do is just walk out of here. But I have a feeling I should stick around. Maybe I can learn something from you.


"A great privilege and honor, mi Teniente," the headwaiter said. "El Coronel would prefer some of the French?"


“French or Argentine, Cletus?”


"Argentine, please," Clete said.


"I personally believe our wines are superior—the stock I keep here at the club is from a small vineyard the family has an interest in—but I am of course prejudiced."


"The Argentine wine I've had so far has been great," Clete said.


"And we are known for our beef, too," Frade said. "Might I suggest a lomo? With papas fritas?"—a filet mignon and french-fried potatoes. "And a tomato and onion salad?"


"Sounds fine, thank you."


"One should not eat heavily in the middle of the day," Frade declared. "It slows the blood, and thus one's ability to think clearly."


"Yes, Sir, I agree."


When a waiter delivered the bourbon, Frade ordered their meal.


"One day," he said, "I hope you will find the time to tell me about Guadalcanal. As a soldier, I am of course interested."


I guess that's Question Number One.


"Yes, Sir. I'd be happy to."


"Will there be time? When will you return to the United States?"


And that's Question Number Two.


"I don't know. I'll be here indefinitely."


"I did not know that," Frade said. "Cletus, certainly you cannot take advantage of Se?or Mallin's hospitality indefinitely."


"No, Sir. I don't intend to. Se?or Mallin has found an apartment for me. I'm to move in tomorrow."


"Where?"


"Posadas 1354 Piso sexto."


"That's absurd," Frade declared, and belched. "I beg your pardon."


What the hell does that mean?


"The Guest House is yours," Frade declared with a grand wave of his hand. "For as long as you're here."


"Excuse me?"


"It will be perfect for you," Frade said. "All it does most of the time is sit there and eat up my money anyway. It's settled." He then had a second thought. "Unless, of course, it is not to your liking."


"Sir, I don't understand what you're talking about."


"I would ask you to share my home," Frade said, "but I was once your age, and I know how it is with young men. From my own experience." El Coronel Frade winked, man-to-man, at his son. "Before I met your mother, of course."


That's the first mention of my mother.


"It is on the Avenida Libertador, across from the Hipodromo de Argentina, our major horse track," Frade went on. "It was built by my uncle Guillermo. He would be your granduncle Guillermo. He was a horseman. Unfortunately—within the family— we concede that is about all he was, a horseman. Charming fellow. Played six-goal polo in his sixties. When he was younger, he raced thoroughbreds. If he just raced them, which is quite expensive enough, he would have been all right, but he insisted on gambling on them as well, and he was not at all good at that."


A waiter delivered a bottle of wine, and he and Frade went through a ritual of cork-sniffing and sipping.


"That will do," Frade announced. "Well, as they say in America," he went on, picking up his Jack Daniel's doble and draining it, "waste not, want not"


He looked at Clete, who took a very small sip of his drink and set the glass down.


I wish I could think of some way to get rid of the rest of this. Except that if I poured it out someplace, there would be another instant refill. Better to just pretend to sip on it.


"When your granduncle Guillermo—who never married, by the way—built the Avenida Libertador house, he put the master suite on the fourth floor. This was so that he could watch the races without having to mingle with the crowds, he said. My father, your grandfather, said it was because he could entertain ladies in his bedroom between races. Guillermo was my father's older brother. They were very close."


Now he's giving me this rundown on the family— my granduncle who played the ponies and chased women— to make me feel close and part of things. If you can't trust your own family, who can you trust?


"Shortly after the house was built, your granduncle Guillermo bet more money than he could afford on a horse he owned. It lost, and he found himself in trouble and had to turn to his father for help. He would be, of course, my grandfather and your great grandfather. Your great-grandfather married Maria Elena, the second daughter of Edwardo Pueyrred?n, which is where you and I, Cletus, get our Pueyrred?n blood."


That's nice. What the hell is Pueyrred?n blood?


"As my father related the story to me, Grandfather helped Uncle Guillermo out of his financial difficulties. Of course, Uncle Guillermo knew he would, for the honor of the family. He had done so before, and he would do so again. But this time Grandfather extracted a price. He bought Uncle Guillermo's house. Uncle Guillermo used the money to pay his debt of honor. And then Grandfather told him he intended to put it on the market, since he didn't need it, and Guillermo could not afford to buy it back. Thus, it would be necessary for Uncle Guillermo to move out, and to live and work at San Pedro y San Pablo until such time..."


"Saints Peter and Paul?" Clete asked, confused.


"Our estancia," Frade explained. "Since you are going to be here for some time, you will of course visit there: It will, of course, be yours one day. Someday, I hope, in the far distant future."


Did I hear that correctly? I have suddenly become heir apparent? Good thought, Pop. The heir apparent will certainly tell you anything about himself you care to know.


"Uncle Guillermo, of course, thought this would be a temporary arrangement, that he would spend a couple of months at San Pedro y San Pablo until things calmed down with Grandpapa. But Grandpapa was annoyed with him (though Grandpapa was not serious about putting the house on the market). When Daddy— your grandfather—married, his father—-your great-grandfather— gave the house on Libertador to him as a wedding present. I was born there. When your grandfather died, he passed his home to my father. I live mere now—a money sewer on Avenida Coronel Diaz in Palermo. My father did not wish to sell the Libertador house, for even then they were talking of building apartment buildings along Libertador, and the land value was rising, so he turned it into a guest house. I have always felt that Daddy would give the house to me on my marriage, but God called him home before that could happen."


El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade stopped, quickly pulled the crisp white handkerchief from his breast pocket, grimaced, and loudly blew his nose. "Disculpeme"—excuse me—he said.


My God, he's crying! Am I supposed to believe that's for real?


"Disculpame," he repeated, dabbing at his eyes with the handkerchief. "Something was stuck in my throat. As I was saying, when your mother came here as my bride, we lived in the Libertador house when we were in the city. To her, living in the house on Avenida Coronel Diaz was like living in a museum. You were not born there, Cletus, but it was from the Libertador house, when your mother's time came, that I took her to the hospital where you were born."


He blew his nose loudly again, and picked up his wineglass and drained it.


He's really shameless. And good. If I hadn't figured the sonofabitch out, I'd really start to think he was shedding tears at the memory of my mother.


“After we have our lunch, if they ever get around to serving it," he said, "we will drive over mere and you will decide if you would be comfortable there."




[FOUR]


Clete was to remember the drive from the Officers' Club to the house on Libertador for a long time. His father drove. He left the Officers' Club with a squeal of tires on the cobblestones, then raced through town practically flat out, blowing the very loud horn at whoever had the effrontery to place a car in his path, weaving in and out of the traffic—which was six lanes in each direction along Avenida Libertador. Just as Clete noticed the entrance to the racetrack, he made a sudden U-turn, tires squealing again, the huge Horche leaning dangerously, and pulled up before a stone building with an elaborate facade, where he slammed on the brakes.


His father stared at him triumphantly.


"It will be necessary to place the fate of the Horche in the merciful hands of God," he announced. "It takes them forever to open the damned gates, and I have urgent need of the bano"— a toilet.


He left the car and walked quickly to the door of the house, where he lifted a huge brass knocker and banged it half a dozen times. The door was opened by an attractive young woman in a maid's uniform. Frade walked past her, called over his shoulder, “You will please excuse me a moment,” and disappeared through a door.


The power of suggestion,Clete thought. My back teeth are now floating.


He was alone for perhaps two minutes, looking around the sparsely furnished room—heavy, wooden, leather-upholstered chairs and couches, and a round table with a silver bowl of flowers in the center—and then a short, plump, gray-haired woman in a gray dress appeared. She smiled.


"May I offer you something, Se?or? A cup of coffee perhaps?"


"Yo soy Cletus Frade," Clete said. "I am waiting for my father."


"Pardon?"


"I am Cletus Frade, el Coronel Frade's son. I am waiting for him."


The woman clapped her hands in front of her, fingers extended. She did it again and again.


"Madre de Dios," she said; tears ran down her face and she began to sob.


"It would be a kindness, Cletus," his father's voice came softly, from behind him, "if you permitted Se?ora Pellano to embrace you. She cared for you as an infant."


Cletus looked back at the woman and then, somewhat embarrassed, held his arms open. She wrapped her arms around him, put her face on his chest, and sobbed unashamedly.


"A bit overemotional, perhaps," Frade said. "But she means well."


Clete, very uncomfortable, nevertheless gave the woman all the time she wanted, until she finally pushed herself away.


"Pardon, Se?or," she said.


"I am very pleased to meet you, Se?ora," Clete said. It was the only thing he could think of to say.


"You can see his mother in his eyes, God grant that she rests with the angels and in peace," Se?ora Pellano said.


"Yes, I saw that," el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade said with emotion, and then found it necessary to blow his nose again. Then he cleared his throat. "Se?ora Pellano, I am going to show Cletus the house. If he finds it to his liking, he will be staying here. Perhaps you would be good enough to bring some coffee to the master suite?"


"S?, mi Coronel," Se?ora Pellano said.


I'm surprised he didn't order more booze. Why? Probably because he figures now that I've been convinced that we're all one big loving family, he wants to make sure I'm not too drunk to answer his questions when the questioning session begins.


The tour ended when Frade ushered his son up a narrow flight of


steps in the back of the house into a large suite on the top floor.


"There's an elevator," el Coronel said, pointing. Clete turned and saw a sliding door. "The stairs are for the servants, or, it was said, for ladies whom Uncle Guillermo brought in by the rear door.


"You normally keep shutters closed against me afternoon sun in the summer," Frade went on as he walked to the front of the room from the elevator, "but I will raise them to show you the vista."


He pulled hard, grunting, on a strip of canvas next to one of the windows, and a vertical shutter covering a French door leading to a balcony creaked upward.


"There, of course, is the Hipodromo," he said, pointing. "And the English Tennis Club. Beyond it is the River Plate. One day there will be an aeropuerto between here and the river; and there is talk of building a course for el Golf over there to the left. Do you play golf, Cletus?"


"Yes, Sir."


"Of course, and tennis, too. I will arrange for guest memberships at the English Tennis Club and at my golf club."


How the hell did he know I play tennis?


"In the afternoon, and at night, when the sun is down, you catch the wind from the river," Frade said.


Clete heard the elevator and turned in time to see the door slide open. Se?ora Pellano and the young maid who had opened the door were inside a beautifully paneled small elevator. Se?ora Pellano was carrying a coffee service, and the maid was carrying a tray with whiskey.


"So what do you think, Cletus? Would you be comfortable here?" Frade asked as he collapsed into a leather armchair.


"The house is beautiful," Clete said.


It was not as large as it looked. Most of the rooms were small. In square feet, it was probably not as big as the house on St. Charles Avenue. And for that matter, there were probably more square feet in the houses in Midland and on me ranch. But it was inarguably more elegant than any of them, with crystal chandeliers in most of the rooms and corridors, and ornate bronze banisters on the stairway. And the luxuriously furnished suite which occupied all of the top floor certainly proved that Granduncle Guillermo knew how to take care of himself.


"Se?ora Pellano," Frade said as she poured him a scotch, "if Se?or Cletus were to move in here, have I your promise you will care for him well?"


"With joy, mi Coronel."


"Then it's settled. Telephone to Se?or Mallin's Alberto, por favor. Tell him to pack Se?or Cletus's things, and that Enrico will be there immediately to pick them up. And then telephone Enrico at the Big House and tell him to go there and bring Se?or Cletus's things here."


"S?, mi Coronel," Se?ora Pellano said, and smiled warmly at Clete.


"Sir," Clete began—and wondered again why he could not bring himself to say "Father"—"wouldn't it be better if I went over there and got my things, and said good-bye and thank you?''


"I do not think I quite understand..."


"Sir, this strikes me as perhaps a little rude, just sending someone there to get my clothing."


"No, not at all. So far as good manners are concerned, I will have flowers sent in your name to Se?ora de Mallin, and some small gifts to the children, and a case of whiskey to Mallin himself. I will send him something else as well—perhaps a set of silver cups engraved with the crest of the regiment and my name. I think he would like that, as a token of my appreciation for his hospitality to you. That should take care of things."


"Well, if you say so."


"And then, of course, I suspect Mallin will be rather glad to have you out of his house."


"I beg your pardon?"


"You remember Teniente Coronel Martin—the fellow we "bumped into' in the hotel? ... I still haven't worked that out; he's too important in the BIS to conduct surveillances himself. ... Martin came to see me, asking about you and your friend. If he did that, it follows that he has also been to see Mallin, or else will shortly do so. I suspect Mallin will be pleased mat you will no longer be a guest in his house."


"You make the BIS sound like the Gestapo."


"I don't think they're quite that ruthless. But they are good. Don't worry about them. Since you're here simply to ensure that Venezuelan petroleum is not diverted to the Germans, once they convince themselves of that, they will have no further interest in you."


What's that? My invitation to tell you what I'm really doing here? No way, Daddy.


Clete forced himself to look at his father. His father was reaching over the side of his chair to pick up his drink. Clete walked to the window and looked out.


There was activity at the racetrack. Exercise boys were walking horses back to stables after a race. Clete watched as a rambunctious horse got away from its handler and trotted insolently down the track, obviously enjoying itself.


He turned to face his father, to play it by ear.


That's all I can do, play it by ear.


His father was slumped in the armchair, his hand holding the whiskey glass on the armrest. But his head was bent forward, his mouth was open, and his eyes were closed; he was asleep, and snoring.


I’ll be damned, he's passed out, or the next thing to it. He really was putting all the booze away.


Clete felt nature's call and found the bathroom. In it he found proof that Granduncle Guillermo expected female guests in his room. The bathroom was equipped with a plumbing fixture Clete had first seen on the island of Espiritu Santo, in the house of a French plantation owner taken over as a transient quarters. Sullivan had used it, with some success, to cool bottles of Australian beer.


Clete examined the fixture with interest, wondering exactly how it worked. When he completed his primary purpose in the bathroom, he bent over the fixture and tried the faucets, one at a time. The prize for his curiosity was a sudden burst of water at his face from what he thought was a drain.


He dried himself, torn between amusement and humiliation, and returned to the apartment.


Se?ora Pellano was there, along with a burly man in a brown suit. They were both looking down at the soundly sleeping Coronel.


"Who are you?" Clete demanded.


"I am Enrico, mi Teniente," the man said. "I have come to take care of el Coronel."


"I see," Clete asked, and then blurted, "Does he do this sort of thing often?"


"No, mi Teniente," Enrico said, and then, "Permission to speak, mi Teniente?"


"Certainly."


This guy is— or was— a soldier. He looks like a Marine gunnery sergeant with six hash marks; that "permission to speak" business is the mark of an old-timer enlisted man.


"El Coronel would be very embarrassed to remember himself as he is now, mi Teniente. It would be a kindness if he were not reminded of it."


"OK."


"Gracias, mi Teniente."


"What was the occasion today?"


"You were, mi Teniente," Enrico said. "Con permiso, mi Teniente?"


Clete nodded.


Enrico bent over the inert body of el Coronel, wrapped his arms around him, and with a heave and a grunt hoisted him to his feet. Then, with an ease that showed he had done this sort of thing before, he stooped and allowed Frade's body to fall over his shoulder. Then, grunting again, he stood erect. He was now carrying Clete's father in the "Fireman's Carry."


He carried him to the elevator. Se?ora Pellano entered with him, and the door slid closed.


Powerful man,Clete thought. My father is a large man, and he was really out. Took a lot of muscle to carry him that way.


And since he was really out, what does that mean?


Enrico said, and I don't think he was lying, that he doesn't often pass out drunk.


So what does that do to your theory that he was pretending to drink so that you would get drunk and start running off at the mouth?


Christ, I don't know what to think!






X


[ONE]


Calle Ag?ero


Barrio Norte


Buenos Aires, Argentina


1515 28 November 1942


David G. Ettinger was sure he had the right number, but he checked again, taking from the breast pocket of his seersucker suit the slip of paper with "Ernst Klausner, calle Ag?ero 1585" written on it. He crossed the cobblestones of calle Ag?ero and stopped before Number 1585. The house number looked European—blue numbers on a white background, a porcelain medallion mounted to a brass plate.


The houses along both sides of the street were built up to the wide concrete sidewalks. Every twenty yards or so the thick trunks of elm trees pierced the sidewalk, their branches almost touching, shading the street and the sidewalks. The exterior walls of Number 1585 were of exposed aggregate concrete, and the windows had roll-down shutters in place, possibly because of the afternoon sun, or maybe because no one was at home.


The whole neighborhood looks European. Buenos Aires looks European. This could be a street in Madrid; for that matter in Berlin— say Tegel, or Wilhelmsdorf. In Berlin, the walls would be of concrete, carefully smoothed and marked to suggest stone blocks, but that's the only real difference.


Except in Germany, a Jew would live in a Jewish neighborhood.


This neighborhood had no national flavor. He'd ridden several times on his bus rides through a section of town that could have been a suburb of London, and was in fact where many British lived. Pelosi had told him he had found an Italian section. Presumably there would be other neighborhoods with some kind of national identity, but this wasn't one of them. This section of town looked—Argentinean.


First without realizing he was doing so, and then quite intentionally, he had looked for some outward sign—a kosher butcher shop, something like that—which would announce, "Here Live the Jews." He'd seen signs for kosher meats two or three times, but not today, and not in this neighborhood.


And realized, The six pointed Jewish stars on the butcher shops here, as in the United States, are printed in gold, to attract the business of those who keep a kosher kitchen. This isn't like Germany, where they are painted crudely in white on the plate glass, in compliance with provisions of the Racial Purity Act of 1933, to warn innocent Aryans they are about to risk contaMi?ation by entering the business premises of a Gottverdammte Jude.


Ettinger realized that he was feeling very powerful emotions now. There were probably several thousand people named Ernst Klausner in Germany ... or there once were. But he had a strange feeling that this was the Ernst Klausner he knew. Ernst Klausner, of Heinrich Klausner und Sohn, G.m.b.H. The firm had been wholesale paper merchants, with their headquarters in Berlin, and branches all over Germany. They had lived in a villa in Berlin-Lichterfelde.


Ettinger walked up three shallow steps to the door of Ag?ero 1585, found the doorbell, and pressed it. He could not hear a sound from inside, and had just about decided that no one was home, when the door opened. A girl of about twelve or thirteen, her blond hair— Inge Klausner had been blond!—done up in rolled braids. She smiled a bit nervously and asked, "¿Se?or?"


"Guten Tag, Fraulein," Ettinger began, and saw relief in the girl's eyes that she did not have to cope with Spanish. "My name is Ettinger. Is your, mother or father at home?"


"No, I'm afraid not."


"I'm looking for Heir Ernst Klausner, formerly of Berlin. Have I the right home?"


Concern came back in her eyes.


"My father will be here at six," the girl said. "Perhaps it would be better, mein Herr, if you came back then."


"The Frau Klausner I am looking for is named Inge," Ettinger said.


From her eyes, Ettinger could see that he had hit home, but the concern in her eyes did not go away, and she didn't respond directly.


"It would be better, mein Heir, if you came back when my father is here. At six, or a little after."


"And if this is the home of Ernst and Inge Klausner, then you would be Sarah," Ettinger said. "Who I last saw as a small child."


She looked intently into his eyes. They were frightened, and he was sorry he had said what he had.


"Please," the girl said. "Come in. I will telephone to my father."


"Ernst?"


"Who is this?"


"An old friend from Berlin, Ernst. David Ettinger."


"Ach du lieber Gott!"


"Wie geht's, Ernst?"


"You got out!"


"Obviously."


"And your father and mother?"


"Mother is in New York. The others ..."


There was a long silence.


"How did you find me?"


"Your daughter was kind enough to call you for me."


"You are at my home?"


"Yes."


There was another perceptible pause.


He doesn't like me being here.


"I can't leave here now, David. Could you come back to the house tonight? After six?"


"I have nothing else to do. I could wait for you."


"Of course," Ernst said. "Have you money, David? There is some in the house. I will tell Sarah to get you something to eat..."


"I have money, thank you. And I had an enormous Argentinean lunch before I came here."


He thinks I am a refugee. I am, but not the way he thinks.


"I can't leave here now. I will come, we will come, as soon as we can. Would you put Sarah on the telephone?"


Inge sobbed and dabbed at her eyes when she embraced him, but quickly recovered and announced, "We will have a coffee, David. Like old times."


She motioned with her head for Sarah to come with her, and went into the kitchen, leaving Klausner and Ettinger alone.




"So, David," Klausner said. "You are really all right? You need nothing?"


"Nothing, but I thank you for the thought."


Klausner smiled. "You look prosperous. Can I ask? Did you bring anything out?"


"My Spanish cousins have been more than generous; and so far, I understand, they have kept the business from being sold to some deserving National Socialist." He paused, then decided he could, should, tell Klausner everything. "I sold my interest in the German businesses to them. Technically, they are now owned by Spaniards. Germany has yet to expropriate Spanish-held property."


"And you're now living in Spain?"


"No. In the United States. Ernst, not for Inge's ears, I am in the American Army." He paused and chuckled. "I am a staff sergeant in the United States Army."


Ettinger expected surprise at that announcement, but not the look of total bafflement that came to Klausner's face.


"I was working in New York City," Ettinger went on. "When I went to America, I took the exaMi?ation for radio engineer, and I was working for RCA, the Radio Corporation of America... you know the name Sarnoff, Ernst, David Sarnoff? A Russian, a Jew, one of the great geniuses of radio... ?"


"Why did you leave Spain?" Klausner interrupted.


The question surprised Ettinger.


"I didn't, I don't, trust Franco," he said. "It is only a matter of time before he joins the-Axis. I'm surprised it hasn't happened already. What happened in Germany will happen in Spain."


Klausner closed his eyes and shook his head, as if shocked and saddened by Ettinger's stupidity.


"Franco is not as bad as you think, David," he said.


What the hell is that all about? Franco isEl Caudillo only because of the Germans, their Condor Legion, and all their other military support. He is as much a fascist as Mussolini and Hitler. But this is not the time to debate that.


"I was working for RCA, and I registered for the draft..."


"The what?"


"Military service, conscription," Ettinger explained. "And Mr. Sarnoff—Ernst, you must know who he is. He worked with Marconi ..."


Klausner was obviously wholly uninterested in a Russian Jew named Sarnoff, radio pioneer and genius or not. And Ettinger realized his attitude annoyed him.


"Mr. Sarnoff called me to his office. He said my work was essential to the war effort, and I did not have to go into the Army; all I had to say was that I did not wish to go, and he would arrange it"


"So why are you in the American Army?" Klausner asked.


"I told Mr. Sarnoff that I wished to be an American citizen, and that I felt it my duty to serve."


There he goes, shaking his head again. Or has his head ever stopped shaking, as if he is dealing with a pitiful idiot?


"And Mr. Sarnoff said to me, I know how you feel. I myself am going in the Army. And he told me when the war is over, I will not only have my job back, but that while I am in the Army, RCA will pay the difference between my Army pay and what I was making at RCA."


"If the Americans win the war," Klausner said.


"There is no 'if,' Ernst," Ettinger said. "The Americans will win."


Klausner shrugged.


Why am I growing so angry?


"When I was in an Army school in Baltimore," Ettinger said, "I was taken, Ernst, to a shipyard in Kearny, New Jersey, which is right across the river from New York City. They are building one ship a day in that shipyard, Ernst. It takes them three weeks to build a ship. Every day, seven days a week, they launch a ship. And they told us they were not up to speed."


"What?"


"Up to speed. It means that soon they will be making two ships a day, or three, or even four. And that is not their only shipyard. They have—I don't know, ten, twenty shipyards, maybe more. Germany cannot make enough torpedoes to sink that many ships."


Klausner shrugged again.


"On the way to Kearny, we passed the airport in Newark. It is bigger—three or four times the size of Tempelhof—and as far as I could see, enormous bombers were about to be flown to England. Not shipped, Ernst, flown."


Klausner held up his hand to silence him. Ettinger followed his eyes. Inge was coming into the room with a tray.


"They are worse than the Viennese here," she said, putting the tray down in front of him. It held an assortment of pastries. "They take a Viennese recipe. If it says 'six eggs,' they use twelve. If it says 'one cup of sugar,' they use two. And the meat!"


"The meat is incredible," Klausner agreed. "Cheap. Marvelous."


Sarah put a coffee service on a low table. Inge poured coffee, handed cups to Ettinger and her husband, then started to pour a cup for herself.


"Liebchen," Klausner said. "Why don't you take Sarah for a little walk?"


It was said softly, but it was an order. She put the pot down and smiled.


"We will talk later, David," she said. "You'll stay for supper, of course."


"We will talk," Ettinger agreed.


"I am so happy that you are here," Inge said.


"I am so happy to see you all," Ettinger said.


Klausner waited until his wife and daughter had left the house.


"If you are in the American Army," he challenged, "what are you doing in Buenos Aires, not in a uniform?"


"That, Ernst, I cannot talk about."


"You are a spy."


Ettinger laughed. "No. A spy? No."


"I don't believe you," Klausner said. "I understand why you feel you must lie to me, David, but I don't believe you."


"I am sure we—we Americans—have spies here, but I am not one of them."


"What are you doing here?"


"I cannot tell you."


"A spy by another name. You are playing word games."


"I am here to harm the Germans, Ernst."


"Yes, of course you are. Thank you for your honesty."


"Not the Germans. The Nazis."


"Word games again. There is no difference between them. You should know that You do know that."


This time Ettinger shrugged.


"Let me tell you about the Argentineans, David. We Argentineans. I am not a German anymore. I speak the language. I read Goethe and Schiller, I eat apfelstrudel. But I am no longer a German. I am an Argentinean."


"You are also a Jew."


"I am an Argentinean who happens to be a Jew."


"You are a German Jew who has lost his life and his family to the Nazis."


"I am an Argentinean whose family, Inge and Sarah, has been saved by the Argentineans. I am an Argentinean. I became an Argentinean. I swore to defend this country, David, to obey its laws. Argentina is neutral. I want nothing to do with a spy from the United States of America or anywhere else."


"They killed our people. They are killing our people."


"I think it would be best if you left, David, before Inge and Sarah come home," Klausner said.


Ettinger stood up, then looked down at Klausner.


"Because we were friends together in Germany," Klausner said, "I will not report you to Internal Security. But please, please, do not come back, and do not tell anyone that you knew me in Berlin."


"As you wish, Ernst," Ettinger said.


"Auf Wiedersehen, mein alt Freund. May God be with you," Ernst said.




[TWO]


4730 Avenida Libertador


Buenos Aires


0900 29 November 1942


Clete was wakened by Se?ora Pellano, who set a tray-on-legs with orange juice and coffee on his bed.


"Buenos dias, Se?or Cletus."


" 'Dias, muchas gracias," he said, smiling at her, carefully trying to sit up without upsetting the tray.


"Would you like me to bring you something to eat?"


"Let me come downstairs," he said, smiling at her. "Give me thirty minutes to shower and shave."


"I would be happy to serve it here."


"Downstairs, please."


"S?, Se?or Cletus," she said, and went to the wardrobe and took out a dressing gown and laid it on the bed before leaving.


Even in the house on St. Charles Avenue,he thought, I was never treated this well, like an English nobleman in the movies.


There were two maids, so that no matter what hour of the day, his needs would not go unattended. There was also a cook and a houseman, a dignified old man named Ernesto. The staff was run with an iron hand by Se?ora Pellano, who, his father had told him, came from a fine family who had been in service to the Frades for three generations. One of the maids was a Porteno, the other from a family who lived on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. Both were young and attractive, which made him somewhat uncomfortable. He would have preferred maids twice their age.


Despite the physical comforts, he had spent an uncomfortable night at the house on Libertador—his second night there—primarily because he was bored. Exploring Granduncle Guillermo's playroom, which is what he finally did after everything else failed, didn't really help to cure his boredom.


At ten of the morning after their meeting, his father called to ask if he was comfortable, and to apologize: He had to leave town and would be in touch in a couple of days, after he returned; if Clete needed anything in the meantime, Se?ora Pellano would provide it. He did not mention how they parted the day before.


When Clete tried to call Mr. Nestor at the Bank of Boston to tell him where he was living, he was told that Nestor, too, was out of town.


"And is there a message, Se?or?"


"No, thank you. I'll call again."


And Pelosi was unavailable. Mallin had arranged a tour of the tank farm for him, and he would be gone all day.


Clete took a stroll around the neighborhood, including a walk through the stables of the Hipodromo. The horses were magnificent, and he liked their smell. It was comforting.


But with that out of the way, he couldn't find much else to do. Except explore Granduncle Guillermo's playroom. It was still relatively early in the evening when he searched through an absolutely gorgeous, heavily carved desk, made from some kind of wood he didn't recognize, and came across a locked compartment at the rear of one of the large drawers.


Feeling childishly mischievous, he looked for keys. None of the two dozen he could find fit the simple lock. So, telling himself that he knew better than what he was doing—but his father did tell him the place was his—he went downstairs and asked Se?ora Pellano were he could find tools.


"If anything needs fixing," she told him patiently but firmly, "I will fix it myself; or else the houseman will do it."


"All I need is a screwdriver," he said. "A small one. And maybe a small knife. I'll take care of it myself."


She led him to a toolbox in the basement. The box held both a penknife and a screwdriver.


The locked drawer quickly yielded to the removal of the brass screws of the lock.


It contained more evidence of Granduncle Guillermo's preoccupation with the distinguishing characteristics of the opposite gender. The drawer contained two leather-covered boxes, each containing fifty or sixty lewd and obscene photographs.


Clete had never seen anything like them (even at stag movies at his fraternity house at Tulane). They were glass transparencies, about four by five inches. Not negatives, positives. He suspected that there was probably some kind of a projector, to project them on a screen.


To judge by the appearance of the women, they had been taken a long time ago, certainly before the First World War, possibly even before the turn of the century. The women were far plumper—plusher—than currently fashionable, and wore their hair either swept up or braided, while all the men had mustaches and were pretty skinny.


Holding them up to the light, he examined every last one of them, concluding that they knew the same positions then that he was used to. The women far outnumbered, the men, and it was possible to suspect that the women were more interested in other women than in the scrawny men in their drooping mustaches.


After carefully replacing the glass plates in their boxes and relocking the drawer, Clete realized that he was going to have to commit the sin of Onan. Somewhat humiliated by the process, he did so.


At least I won't stain the sheets tonight,he thought afterward.


Unfortunately, things didn't work out that way. He woke up from a painfully realistic dream—Princess Dorothea the Virgin was exposing her breasts to him—to find that he had soiled the sheets after all.


He took a shower, hoping that by morning the sheets would be dry and the maid would not notice, and tittering, report her finding to Se?ora Pellano.


Clete drank the orange juice and half the coffee, took another shower, put on a short-sleeve shirt and a pair of khaki pants, and rode the elevator down to the main floor. The twelve-seat dining-room table had been set for one and laid out with enough food to feed six hungry people.


Halfway through his scrambled eggs, he heard the telephone ring, and a minute later, Se?ora Pellano set a telephone beside him. It looked as if it had been built by Alexander Graham Bell himself.


"It is a Se?or Nestor. Are you at home, Se?or Clete?"


He picked up the telephone.


"Good morning, Sir."


Shit, I'm not supposed to call him "Sir."


"Good morning, Clete," Nestor said. "Jasper Nestor of the Bank of Boston here."


"I tried to call you yesterday to tell..."


"I called the Mallin place, and they told me where to find you."


"My father offered me this pla—"


"The reason I'm calling, Clete," Nestor interrupted, "and I know this is damned short notice. The thing is, there's a small party at the Belgrano Athletic Club this evening. We sponsor, the bank, one of the cricket teams. Nothing very elaborate—no black tie, in other words. Just drinks and dinner. There's a chap I want you to meet. I introduced you at the bank, if you'll remember. Mr. Ettinger?"


"Yes, I remember meeting Mr. Ettinger."


"Well, you have things in common—being newcomers and bachelors. Why don't we put you two together and see what happens? Or do you have other plans?"


"No. Thank you very much."


"Perhaps we'll have a few minutes for a little chat ourselves. Right about seven? Would that be convenient? Do you know where it is, can you find it all right?"


"Yes. I have a guest card. I've played tennis there."


"Good. Look forward to seeing you about seven."




[THREE]


The Belgrano Athletic Club


Buenos Aires


1925 29 November 1942


I wonder what the rules of that game are,Clete thought as he looked out the window of the bar at a cricket game being played under field lights.


He held a scotch and water—he had told the barman to give him a very light one—and was munching on potato chips, waiting for Nestor to show up.


The Belgrano Athletic Club looked as if it had been miraculously transported intact from England. In the bar, a paneled room with photographs on its walls of the Stately Homes of England, the conversation was in English—English English—and even the bartender spoke as if London was his home.


The bar was for men only, but there were a good number of women outside in the stands watching the game, and parading past the windows of the bar. Good-looking, long-legged, nice-breasted blond women, in lightweight summer dresses.


Just what I don't need after Granduncle Guillermo's dirty pictures. -


I wonder what the boys on Guadalcanal are doing right now.


"Ah, there you are, Clete!" Nestor said behind him. "Admiring the view, are you?"


Clete turned to face him. Ettinger was with him.


"Good evening."


"You remember David, of course. You met him at the bank?"


"Yes, of course. How are you, Mr. Ettinger?"


"We're quite informal here," Nestor said. "It really should be 'David' and 'Clete.' "


"Nice to see you again, David," Clete said.


They shook hands.


"Let me find us something to drink. You all right, Clete, or will you have another?"


"I'm fine, thank you just the same."


As soon as he was out of sight, David asked, "No Tony? I thought maybe I'd be introduced to him too."


"He wasn't invited. He's not even supposed to know who Nestor is."


"I meant I thought Nestor the banker might invite him as a courtesy to an employee of Howell Petroleum. One of the things I've learned is how much Howell money flows through the Bank of Boston."


Clete shrugged.


"Maybe later. Nestor strikes me as a very cautious man." He smiled at Ettinger. "All things considered, you like being a banker?"


Ettinger looked at Clete a moment as if wondering if he should say what he wanted to. He glanced around to make sure no one was within eavesdropping range, and then said, "I had a very strange, disturbing thing happen to me yesterday."


"What was that?"


"I went to see some people I used to know..."


"Used to know"? Oh. In Germany. One of the Jewish families on Nestor's list.


"People named Klausner. A man named Ernst Klausner. We were rather close at one time. Until he found out what I was doing here—"


"You told him?" Clete interrupted, shocked and then angry.


Jesus Christ, here he goes again. First he tells his mother he's going to Argentina, and then he tells somebody he used to know—


"I told him I was in the Army, nothing else. At that point, he pulled the welcome mat out from under my feet. He told me he was now an Argentinean, not a German, and that as an Argentinean, he should report me to the authorities. For auld lang syne, he wouldn't, but don't come back."


"Jesus! Was this before or after you asked him about the ships?"


"I didn't get as far as asking him anything. And he didn't seem at all concerned what the Germans are doing to Jews in Germany. He's out, and that's all he cares about it."


"Did you tell Nestor?"


"Of course."


Well, Nestor is the Station Chief. If he's not upset that David ran off at the mouth, why should I be?


Because if we get caught, we go to jail, or worse, not Nestor.


"And what was his reaction?"


"He said there were a lot of other names on the list."


Two other men came to the window, effectively shutting off further conversation. A moment later, Nestor rejoined them.


"We owe you an apology for keeping you waiting, Clete," he said, handing Ettinger a drink.


"Not at all."


"We were out buying David a car."


"Really?"


"A '39 Ford, with the steering wheel on the wrong side," Ettinger said.


"You'll have to take me for a ride in it," Clete said.


"As soon as I actually get it, I'd be delighted to."


"This is Argentina, Clete," Nestor explained. "You don't buy a car and drive off the lot with it the same day. With a little bit of luck, David may lay his hands on it in a week or ten days."


"I love the view from here," Ettinger said. "Look at that blonde!"


Clete had noticed her too. A stunning female, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and a pale-yellow dress.


"Her husband is probably standing at the bar," Clete said, laughing.


"He's not," Nestor said. "He's one of ours at the bank. And he's out of town. But if he was here, he would take it as a compliment."


"It was intended as one."


"I think maybe we better wander in," Nestor said.


"Wander in where?" Clete asked.


"To the lounge."


"I hate to walk away from the parade," Clete said.


"They'll be in the lounge," Nestor said. "They're not allowed in here, which I think is a rather good idea. But they will be in the lounge, and they will, of course, be at dinner."


Clete's companion at dinner turned out to be the blonde who had caught David's attention.


Her name, she told him in a delightful British accent, was Monica Javez de Frade. But they were not related.


"We're not even a poor branch of your family. No relation at all."


Which means that Nestor told you who I am. Or that word had spread around the bank who I am— who my father is— after Nestor introduced me around his office.


The proof of that theory seemed to come when she told him that Pablo, her husband, was in "real estate" at the bank, and worked closely with Nestor.


"Agricultural real estate, unfortunately," Monica added, "which means that poor Pablo spends most of his time in the country, leaving poor Monica to spend most of her time alone in the city."


Clete smiled politely, telling himself that her remark had the meaning he was giving it only because his near-terMi?al chastity—and Granduncle Guillermo's dirty pictures—had inflamed his imagination.


But during supper, and during the award afterward of small silver cups to the triumphant members of the Banco de Boston cricket team, Monica's knee kept brushing against his. At each encounter, Clete quickly moved his knee away ... until he de cided to leave his knee there. Then the pressure of her knee against his increased. He withdrew it then, telling himself that the cure for his near-terMi?al chastity should not involve a married woman, and especially one whose husband worked closely with Jasper Nestor.


Laying her hand on his arm to distract his attention from one of the cricket players' lengthy tribute to his teammates— and for no other purpose, Clete, get your imagination under control— Monica asked if he had found an apartment, or whether he was staying with his father.


"My father has a guest house. I'm staying there."


"On Avenida Libertador?"


"Yes. You know the house?"


"I know about it," she said. "The place one of the legendary Frades built with the master apartment on the top floor so he could watch the races at the Hipodromo without crossing the street?"


And for other purposes.


"That's the place."


"I've always wanted to see it."


"Anytime. It would be my pleasure."


The cricket player finally finished his speech, there was unenthusiastic applause, and a short man with a bushy mustache stepped to the lectern to announce the conclusion of the evening's events. He told everyone he wished to thank them for coming, and especially the Banco de Boston for their generous support.


People started rising to their feet, including Monica, who managed to brush her breasts against Clete's arm in the process.


Nestor appeared.


"About ready, Clete? I'd love to stay for the dancing, but I have an early-morning appointment."


"Thank you, Se?ora de Frade."


"Oh, Monica, please."


"Thank you, Monica, for the pleasure of your company."


"Perhaps we'll see each other again," she said, giving him her hand.


"When is Pablo due back, Monica?" Nestor asked.


"The day after tomorrow."


"It's always a pleasure to see you," Nestor said. "Clete?"


Clete followed him to the door, where Ettinger was waiting.


"Well, now that you and David have been introduced," Nestor said as he drove down Avenida Libertador, "it will seem perfectly natural that you meet for lunch or dinner. Two bachelors, so to speak, out on the town."


"Yes," Clete agreed.


"You seem to have made quite an impression on the de Frade woman, Clete," Nestor added. "Which might not be a bad thing."


"I don't think I understand."


“With her husband out of town as much as he is, hostesses are always looking for a suitable bachelor to be her escort at dinner. You really should be socially active."


No way, thank you very much.


"I volunteer," David said from the backseat.


"She didn't seem nearly as interested in you, I'm afraid, David." Nestor laughed. "And they always ask the husband-less woman if the proposed dinner partner is satisfactory to her before they invite him."


Se?ora Pellano was waiting up for him in the foyer of the Guest House.


"I thought perhaps you might like a little something to eat, Se?or Cletus."


"No. Thank you very much. And you don't have to wait up for me like this, Se?ora Pellano."


"It is my pleasure, Se?or Cletus."


"I'm going to turn in, Se?ora Pellano. Good night."


"Buenas noches, Se?or Cletus."


He started toward the elevator. The telephone rang.


"A gentleman called before," she said. "Not an Argentine. His Spanish was not very good. He said he would call again. Perhaps that is him."


Pelosi. I wonder what he wants.


Clete waited for her to answer the telephone.


"It is a lady, Se?or Cletus," she said, and handed him the telephone.


"¿Hola?"


"Cletus, Monica. I wondered if you would really go home."


"I really went home."


"I'm still at the club. I stayed for the dancing. I'm bored."


"I'm sorry."


"Cletus, did you mean it when you said you would show me the Guest House?"


"Of course."


"You also said 'anytime.' I could be there in fifteen minutes."


"Why don't you come over, Monica? I'll show you my etchings."


"Oh, that sounds delightfully wicked. I'll be right there."


Or maybe Granduncle Guillermo's dirty pictures.


"I'm driving myself," Monica said. "And I'd really rather not drive home to drop the car off and look for a cab. Is there room in your garage?"


There was only one car in the basement garage, which was large enough for four cars, a Fiat sedan used by Se?ora Pellano.


"Yes, there is."


"Then be a dear and have it open when I get there, will you? We don't want people talking, do we? Or would you prefer that I take a taxi?"


"I'll have the gates and the garage open."


"Fifteen minutes," she said, and hung up.


He hung up the telephone and turned to find Se?ora Pellano looking at him.


"I'm to have a guest," he began. "She wants to park her car in the garage."


"I'll have Ernesto open it."


"I can do that."


"And I'll set out some agua mineral con gas and some ice in the reception room," she said. "Unless you would prefer it in the apartment? Se?or Cletus?"


"The reception room will be fine, thank you."


"And then I will say good night, Se?or Cletus."


"Thank you, Se?ora Pellano."


"I hope you have a good alarm clock," Monica said, looking at him over the rim of the scotch and water he had made her. "I absolutely have to be home by seven. If I'm not, the children are liable to wake up and ask where Mommy is."


Children? Of course, children. She's a married woman. Married women have children.


This is not the smartest thing you have ever done, Clete. It may turn out to be the dumbest. But there doesn't seem to be any question that you are about to return to the ranks of the sexually active.


Maybe that will put the Virgin Princess out of your mind.


"I think there's one in the apartment. Shall we go have "a look?"


"Splendid idea," Monica said. "And why don't I carry this tray along with us, so you won't have to wake the servants?"


She picked up the tray with the ice and soda water on it, smiled at him, and waited for him to show her the way to the bedroom.




[FOUR]


4730 Avenida Libertador


Buenos Aires


1745 30 November 1942


Cletus Howell Frade, First Lieutenant, USMCR, and Laird of the Manor, in T-shirt and khaki trousers, was sitting on a heavy wooden chair—so heavy it absolutely could not be tipped back on its rear legs, and he had really tried—on the balcony outside his bedroom. A liter bottle of Quilmes Cerveza (beer) rested on his abdomen. His feet, in battered boots he'd owned since before he went to College Station to join the corps of cadets at Texas AandM, rested on the masonry railing. And he was watching an exercise boy let a magnificent Arabian run at a full gallop at the racetrack across the street.


"I wish I was up there with you, you lucky sonofabitch, whoever you are," he announced to the world in general.


And immediately regretted it. Every time he opened his mouth and a sound came out, even a cough, either Se?ora Pellano or one of the maids appeared with a warm smile on her face and inquired,


"S?, Se?or?"


He glanced over his shoulder to see if one of them was headed his way. No one was coming through the bedroom—or Grand-uncle Guillermo's playroom, as he had come to think of it.


He looked back toward the river and the racetrack. Thirty or forty sailboats were on the river, and there was activity at the racetrack, as if they were preparing for a race. He took another pull at the neck of the bottle of cerveza.


Damned good beer. They really know how to eat and drink down here.


He was not looking forward to the evening. He was going to dinner, where he would meet his aunt Beatrice and his uncle Humberto for the first time. Until three days before, he had been blissfully unaware that he had an Uncle Humberto or an Aunt Beatrice or a Cousin Jorge who got himself killed at Stalingrad.


And whose death, his father said, left Aunt Beatrice shattered enough to need a psychiatrist's attention.


There was of course no way to get out of going.


"Beatrice will inevitably find out that you are in Buenos Aires," his father told him on the telephone, "and would be deeply hurt if you do not pay your respects."


"I understand."


"Beatrice and your mother were close, Cletus. They were brides together, and young first mothers. She held you as a baby."


And now she'll want to know how come her baby is dead, and I'm alive.


Shit.


"I will try to make it an early evening. May I send a car for you at nine forty-five? They usually sit down to dinner at ten-thirty or eleven."


Anearly dinner?


"Thank you."


He was also having troubling feelings about the events of the previous evening.


After their first coupling—which took place no more than ninety seconds after they stepped off the elevator and walked into the playroom, and lasted about half that long—Monica confided to him that a combination of Pablo's diminishing sexual drive and the attention he was spending on his Mi?a had combined to almost entirely deny her the satisfactions of the connubial couch.


Their initial coupling was followed by three others. The last two shattered the hope that his near-terMi?al chastity was solely responsible for his carnal thoughts about the Virgin Princess, and that once that condition was cured, his shameful thoughts about her would disappear.


That didn't happen. He managed to perform—although he wasn't too sure he could the last time Monica reached for it—in a manner that did not bring shame on the reputation of the commissioned officer corps of the United States Marines. But clear images of the pert, yet ample virgin breasts of Se?orita Dorotea Mallin kept flashing into his mind, even as he was somewhat feverishly attending to the business at hand.


Which is what you get, you pervert, for looking down the front of her dress whenever you have the chance.


At least I got out of her house before I made an ass of myself. I think Mallin was looking at me funny toward the end, which means that he caught me looking at her.


On the other hand, there's no denying that I miss her something awful. Just seeing her, hearing her talk and laugh. Just having her look at me. The funny thing is that when I think about her— except when I'm banging a thirty-two-year-old mother of three — it's not her breasts, or even that absolutely perfect ass, but her eyes. Christ, she has beautiful eyes!


Thank God, I got out of there before I made any kind of a pass at her.


Or am I going to be a fool and call her up when the Buick comes and ask her if she'd like to go for a ride?


In his mind he heard her voice: ' I have never been in a Buick droptop, Cletus. Will you take me for a ride when it arrives?"


“Convertible, Princess. Convertible. Sure. Be happy to.”


"Se?or Cletus, Se?or Nestor wishes to see you," Se?ora Pellano announced, startling him—he hadn't heard her come up.


"He's here?"


"S?, Se?or. In the reception."


What the hell does he want?


"Ask him to come up, please, Se?ora Pellano," Clete said.


When, a minute or so later, he heard the sound of the elevator door opening, he took his booted feet off the railing and stood up and smiled at Jasper C. Nestor. The Spymaster was wearing a seersucker suit, and he was carrying a soft-brimmed straw hat in one hand and a package in the other.


"I'm glad I caught you at home, Clete," Nestor said, thrusting the package at him. "A little housewarming gift."


The package gurgled. It was booze of some kind.


"Thank you," Clete said. "I'm a little disappointed, though, frankly."


"How's that?"


"From Humphrey Bogart movies, I had the idea that spies met in an alley in the tough part of town at midnight, not at someplace like the Belgrano Athletic Club. And I certainly didn't expect the Spymaster to show up bearing a housewarming gift."


He'd intended to be witty. From the strained smile on Nestor's face, Clete saw he hadn't been taken that way.


I will henceforth go easy on the humor.


"We're not spies, Clete," Nestor said after a moment. "We're gentlemen. The FBI are the spies."


"And not gentlemen?"


"Rarely, Clete, rarely. There is always an exception."


Clete shook the package.


"Would you like a little of whatever this is? Or something else?"


"I would prefer one of those," Nestor replied, indicating Clete's beer. "If that would..."


Clete pushed the call button. They were all over the house. Granduncle Guillermo knew how to live.


Se?ora Pellano appeared immediately.


"Would you bring the Se?or a beer, please? And a glass. Se?or is a gentleman."


"Actually, on a hot day, I rather like to drink from the bottle," Nestor said, smiling, and then turned and gestured off the balcony. "Beautiful view from here."


"It's a beautiful house," Clete said.


"And how kind of your father to make it available to you."


"I thought so."


"There are other advantages as well."


"Such as?"


"It establishes you as the beloved son of el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade," Nestor said. "That could prove very valuable."


Clete nodded.


"Have you thought about calling Se?ora Frade? You seemed to be getting along splendidly with her last night. A—I almost said 'affair'— relationshipwith her might be valuable to us."


"She called me," Clete said. "The phone rang the minute I walked in the door last night."


"And will you see her?" Nestor asked, then caught the look on Clete's face. "Really? Good boy."


"Is that why I was at the dinner? You wanted me to meet her?"


"I wanted you to meet David in a credible situation," Nestor said. "Se?ora Frade, so to speak, was an unexpected bonus. Letting it travel around town that she has added you to her list of admirers—her long list of admirers—will paint the sort of picture about you we want."


Herlong list of admirers? Incredible!


"Inasmuch as you elected to ignore your instructions vis-a-vis your cover," Nestor went on, "that may prove quite valuable. More gossip-worthy, so to speak."


"Sir, I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."


"Your father proudly introduced you to a number of important officers as 'my son, late Teniente of the air service of the U.S. Marine Corps, who served at Guadalcanal.' "


"How did you hear about that?" Clete asked, surprised.


"I have a number of friends in the Argentine military. I presume you had reason to ignore your instructions about your cover?"


"I suppose I could tell you that it just slipped out. But the truth of the matter is, I was a little drunk at the time, and didn't want my father to think I was shirking my duty to God and country."


"From what I hear, the both of you were three sheets to the wind. I'm sure meeting him was emotional for the both of you, but you might consider the ill-wisdom of excessive alcohol."


"Yes, Sir."


Se?ora Pellano came onto the balcony with a bottle of cerveza and a glass on a tray.


Nestor stopped her when she started to pour, took the bottle from her, and put it to his lips.


Is he doing that because he really likes to, or to play "I'm just one of the boys" with me?


"I hope I haven't disturbed anything?" Nestor asked.


"No. Not a thing. I was sitting here catching the breeze and feeling sorry for myself."


"Why sorry? Don't tell me Se?ora Frade didn't turn out to be as advertised."


"I miss flying. I even miss the goddamned Marine Corps. I'm a much better Naval Aviator than I am a saboteur."


"Perhaps your father will let you fly his airplane. Or one of them."


"I didn't know he had an airplane."


"He has a Beechcraft biplane, and at least one Piper Cub."


"You mean a stagger-wing Beechcraft?"


"Your father's has the top wing behind the lower... yes, I suppose it would be a 'stagger-wing.' And as I say, at least one Piper Cub. The use—on the larger estancias—of small aircraft is quite common."


"They were getting into that in Texas and Oklahoma, too," Clete said.


If my father has a Beech stagger-wing, he'll probably let me fly it.


"We considered, of course, that you might not find your father to be the ogre Mr. Howell paints him to be. And in time, that you might manage to get close to him. We didn't think it would happen so quickly.


"Do you think he'll turn out to be useful to us?"


"How do you mean, useful?"


"Tilt this country toward us, and away from Mr. Hitler and Company."


"My initial impression of my father is that he's a strong, intelligent man, who will tilt the way he decides to tilt, completely unaffected by his son's nationality, or by what his son thinks or asks him to do. Incidentally, I'm quite sure he's figured out that I'm not down here to make sure Mallin isn't diverting crude to the Germans."


"What makes you think so?"


"He as much as told me. It was by shading, innuendo, not in so many words."


"What were the circumstances?"


"There was an Internal Security officer. A lieutenant colonel named Martin ..."


"Not just 'an Internal Security officer,' Clete," Nestor interrupted him. "Colonel Martin is Chief of the Ethical Standards Office of the Bureau of Internal Security. He reports only to the Chief of Internal Security, an admiral named de Montoya. A very competent, and thus dangerous, man."


"My father said he'd been to see him, asking about me. As a matter of fact, he said that's how he learned I was in Argentina."


"That was quick work on Martin's part," Nestor said admiringly. "They apparently made the connection between you and your father more quickly than we thought they would. Go on."


"Anyway, this Colonel Martin was in the Alvear Palace when I met my father." *


"Possibly surveilling your father. But that's unlikely. He's too important for something like that."


"My father introduced us," Clete went on, aware he was growing annoyed at Nestor's frequent interruptions. "Later he told me who Martin was. And this is the innuendo I meant: He told me that I have nothing to worry about since I'm down here only for Howell Petroleum—to make sure Mallin is not diverting petroleum products."


Nestor grunted.


"And does Mallin have any idea that you're not down here to do that?"


"No. Or at least he didn't. My father said Martin would probably go to see him. And that would arouse his suspicions."


"Worst possible scenario: You will be expelled from Argentina despite your father, or possibly because your father will arrange it. You would probably have time to go underground, but that would be sticky."


I can think of a worse scenario: The same thing will happen to me, to all three of us, that happened to the last OSS team.


"Alternative scenario," Nestor went on. "Even if Martin has questions about your cover, he won't connect you with the replenishment-ship problem yet, and you will not be expelled from Argentina." He paused a moment, then finished that thought. "Both Martin and Admiral de Montoya are obviously reluctant to anger your father. But he will keep you under surveillance."


"I understand."


"You will have to be extra careful when you go to Uruguay. Which brings us to that."


"Uruguay?"


"How soon do you think you can tear yourself away to go to Uruguay?"


"What will I do in Uruguay?"


"You and Pelosi are going to Montevideo, where you will hire a car and drive to Punta del Este. It is a rather charming little town on the Atlantic coast, quite popular with Argentineans escaping the heat of Buenos Aires. After you take the sun on the beach at Punta for a day or two, you will drive north—I'll furnish a map—to near the Brazilian border. A quantity of explosives and detonators will be air-dropped to you there."


"Air-dropped from where?"


"Prom Brazil, onto a rice field we have used before."


"How do I get the explosives past Argentine customs when we come back? Or past Uruguayan customs leaving Uruguay?"


"The explosives themselves should pose no problem. They have been molded into a substance that looks exactly like wood, and precut to form the parts of a wooden crate. You will assemble the crates—there will be two of them, with a total weight of just over twenty-two pounds—and fill them with souvenirs of your holiday... not too heavy souvenirs; the explosives only look like wood and don't have wood's strength. They make some rather attractive doodads of straw, in the shape of chickens, horses, cows, et cetera. These would be ideal. You will quite openly carry the crates onto and off the ferry and through Argentine customs."


Now this is more like Errol Flynn battling the Dirty Nazis. The problem is, although I know Nestor is dead serious, I'm having trouble believing that I am about to go to some field near the Brazilian border and have explosives air-dropped to me.


"The detonators will pose a problem. There will be a dozen of them. They're quite sensitive. Probably the best way is for one of you to tape them to your body. Argentine Customs is very unlikely to submit you to a body search." He paused and smiled. "Or perhaps you could wear your cowboy boots. I'm sure you could conceal them in your boots."


And blow my goddamned leg off!


"Is there any way I could take Ettinger instead of Pelosi?" Clete asked. "Pelosi is young. Excitable. And doesn't speak Spanish well."


"But knows about explosives and airdrops," Nestor said, shaking his head no. "Besides, I want Ettinger to continue what he's doing with the Hebrew community here."


"We've discussed that. He knew only one family on that list of names, and they told him to bug off."


"He's going to have to go back to Klausner and try again."


"He's convinced me that would be a waste of time, and that Klausner would very possibly turn him in. Or at least report to Internal Security that Ettinger has contacted him."


"He'll have to go back."


"You tell him."


"I have information that may change Klausner's attitude," Nestor answered, ignoring Clete's last remark.


He took what looked like several sheets of folded yellow paper from the inside pocket of his seersucker jacket and handed them to Clete. When Clete started to unfold them, he saw it was really one long sheet of paper, and recognized the carbon copy from a radio-teletype machine.


"This will be released to the Argentinean press in the morning. Even if they run it, Herr Klausner might not see it," Nestor said as Clete started to read it.




FROM SECSTATE WASHINGTON 0645 28 NOVEMBER 1942


VIA PANAMA TO ALL AMEMBASSIES SOUTHAMERICA FOR IMMEDIATE PERSONAL ATTENTION AMBASSADORS




(1) SECSTATE DESIRES IMMEDIATE TRANSMTTTAL AT AMBASSADORIAL LEVEL TO HIGHEST POSSIBLE LEVEL HOST GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL, FOLLOWED BY WIDEST POSSIBLE DISSEMI?ATION TO ALL CHANNELS OF PUBLIC INFORMATION.




DECLARATION BEGINS:


THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


THE DEPARTMENT OF STATE


WASHINGTON, DC


28 NOVEMBER 1942




FRANKLIN DELANO ROOSEVELT, THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA; HIS MAJESTY GEORGE VI, KING OF ENGLAND AND EMPEROR OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE; JOSEF STALIN, CHAIRMAN OF THE SUPREME SOVIET OF THE UNION OF SOVIET SOCIALIST REPUBLICS; AND GENERAL CHARLES DE GAULLE, CHAIRMAN OF THE FRENCH NATIONAL COMMITTEE, ON BEHALF OF THEIR GOVERNMENTS, AND IN THE NAME OF THEIR PEOPLE, HEREWITH DECLARE :




THE GERMAN GOVERNMENT, NOT CONTENT WITH DENYING TO PERSONS OF JEWISH RACE IN ALL THE TERRITORIES OVER WHICH THEIR BARBAROUS RULE HAS BEEN EXTENDED THE MOST ELEMENTARY HUMAN RIGHTS, ARE NOW CARRYING INTO EFFECT HITLER'S OFT-REPEATED INTENTION TO EXTERMI?ATE THE JEWISH PEOPLE IN EUROPE.




FROM ALL THE OCCUPIED COUNTRIES, JEWS ARE BEING TRANSPORTED, IN CONDITIONS OF APPALLING HORROR AND BRUTALITY, TO EASTERN EUROPE. IN POLAND, WHICH HAS BEEN MADE THE PRINCIPAL NAZI SLAUGHTERHOUSE, THE GHETTOS ESTABLISHED BY THE GERMAN INVADERS ARE BEING SYSTEMATICALLY EMPTIED OF ALL JEWS EXCEPT A FEW HIGHLY SKILLED WORKERS REQUIRED FOR WAR INDUSTRIES.




NONE OF THOSE TAKEN ARE EVER HEARD OF AGAIN. THE ABLE-BODIED ARE SLOWLY WORKED TO DEATH IN LAROR CAMPS. THE-INFIRM APE LEFT TO DIE OF EXPOSURE AND STARVATION, OR ARE DELIBERATELY MASSACRED IN MASS EXECUTIONS.




THE NUMBER OF VICTIMS OF THESE BLOODY CRUELTIES IS RECKONED IN MANY HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS OF ENTIRELY INNOCENT MEN, WOMEN AND CHILDREN.




THE GOVERNMENTS OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA; THE KINGDOM OF ENGLAND AND THE BRITISH EMPIRE; THE UNION OF SOVIET SOCIALIST REPUBLICS; AND THE FRENCH NATIONAL COMMITTEE CONDEMN IN THE STRONGEST POSSIBLE TERMS THIS BESTIAL POLICY OF COLD-BLOODED EXTERMI?ATION.




DECLARATION ENDS.




(2) SECSTATE DESIRES NOTIFICATION BY MOST EXPEDITIOUS MEANS OF COMPLIANCE, TO INCLUDE NAME AND TITLE OF FOREIGN OFFICIAL TO WHOM DECLARATION DELIVERED, AND DATE AND TIME.




CORDELL HULL SECRETARY OF STATE




"Jesus H. Christ!" Clete said.


"Rather nauseating, isn't it?" Nestor said.


“Hundreds of thousandsof people murdered?” Clete asked incredulously.


“The ambassador said he's been led to believe it's many more than that," Nestor said evenly. "He thinks there was probably quite a discussion in Foggy Bottom ..."


"What?"


"... at the Department of State," Nestor explained somewhat condescendingly. "They call it 'Foggy Bottom' in Washington. The ambassador thinks there was probably quite a discussion— with the decision made at the highest levels, perhaps by the Secretary himself—before they came up with the 'hundreds of thousands' language. Even that boggles credulity. One's mind can accept the death of one person, a hundred persons, even a thousand. Credulity is strained at tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands. The death, much less the murder, of millions is simply—beyond human comprehension."


"In other words, you believe this?"


"We know it to be a fact; our people have seen the death camps."


"Jesus!"


"Give me a call when you return from Punta del Este. Have a good time. I've been there. The women on the beach are stunning; made me wish I was a bachelor."


He put his beer bottle down on the banister.


"I can find my way out," he said.




Chapter Eleven





[ONE]


La Boca


Buenos Aires


1630 3 December 1942


Second Lieutenant Anthony J. Pelosi, Corps of Engineers, Army of the United States, wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and dark-blue cotton trousers, was wet with sweat when the bus finally arrived in La Boca. The bus was old, battered, noisy, and as crowded as the El at the Loop during rush hour— more crowded; I feel like a goddamned sardine.


Lieutenant Frade had ordered him to spend as much time as possible riding the buses, "to get an idea of the terrain." The mentors in New Orleans had suggested the idea, and it was a good one, but Pelosi couldn't help but notice that Frade wasn't riding around in fucking buses himself; he was either getting chauffeured in one of Mallin's cars or catching cabs.


Pelosi stepped off the bus, took half a dozen steps, and then pulled the sweat-soaked shirt away from his chest and back.


Lieutenant Frade had also ordered him to start "laying in whatever you think you're going to need to blow a hole in a ship. No explosives, no detonators, they'll be provided. Everything else."


What the fuck is everything else? You need five things to blow something: explosives, detonators, wire, damping material— sandbags are usually best— and a source of juice to blow the detonators. A proper magneto controller is best. You hook up the wires, give it a crank, and boom!


I'm not as dumb as Lieutenant Frade— and for that matter, Ettinger— think I am. Laying in everything else does not mean I should find some engineer supply store and walk in and announce, "Hola! I'm interested in a good high-explosives controller. A Matson and Hardy Model Seven would be nice. What am I going to do with it? Why, I'm going to blow the bottom out of a ship in your harbor, that's what I'm going to do."


I don't really need a controller. I can get by with a couple of six-volt dry-cell batteries; Christ knows I've done that often enough. So what I'm doing here is looking for wire and a half-dozen dry-cell batteries. Big fucking deal.


What I really need is a magnet, a great big fucking magnet, so I can make something like the thing Lieutenant Greene, Chief Norton, and Bo'sun Leech showed me at the shipyard in Mississippi.


That device really impressed Tony. It was designed to pierce armored steel, like on a tank; and it was improvised from a limpet mine the Navy had gotten from the English, Chief Norton told him. It was constructed of magnetized steel. Its bottom was flat and was attached to the steel of a ship's hull. The top was of much thicker steel, and dome-shaped. The explosive went inside the dome; but the dome also served as a damper, directing the explosive force inward. Even better, the charge itself was molded—Chief Norton called it a "shaped charge"—so that it really directed all the force inward.


Tony could think of a lot of uses for shaped charges in the business. Blowing concrete-sheathed structural steel, for example. And if you put a bunch of small shaped charges around the base of a smokestack, you could really drop the sonofabitch in on itself.


The only thing Tony found wrong with the limpets was that you could hardly put a couple of them in your luggage and board the airplane in Miami.


He didn't think now that he would be able to lay his hands on a dome-shaped piece of steel, even make one himself. But he could probably weld together a box—thin steel on the bottom, heavier on the sides and top—which would be maybe nearly as good as a dome. He would have to figure out some way to magnetize it. And he would try to mold some explosive himself into a shaped charge. If he could do that—he thought he could, with a big pot of boiling water—then he would have something just about as good as what the Navy showed him.


The one thing Tony could absolutely not figure out—with people around like Lieutenant Greene, Chief Norton, and Bo'sun Leech, who knew all about explosives and ships—was why they weren't down here, instead of a Gyrene fly-boy, Ettinger, and him. When Ettinger came to his apartment, he talked to him about that. Ettinger thought it was probably because Frade had connections in Argentina, and he and Ettinger spoke Spanish.


That was true, maybe. But Ettinger was supposed to be the communications sergeant of the team, and so far they didn't even have a telephone, much less a radio. .


This is really one fucked-up operation!


He walked to the edge of the water and bought an ice cream and a Coke from a street vendor. The ice cream was all right, but the Coke was room temperature. And the bottle was in shitty shape. When Tony was in the eighth grade at St. Teresa's, they took them on a tour of the Coke place. Half a dozen women there did nothing all day but sit at a conveyor belt and push off bottles that had chipped tops, or just looked bad. He wondered then what they did with all the bad bottles.


Now I know. They load them on ships and bring them down here.


He found an old-timey ship—it had both masts for sails and a smokestack—tied up at the stone wharf. Tony could read enough of the sign on the wharf to find out that the ship had sailed to Antarctica. He gave in to the impulse and bought a ticket and went on board.


A guy in what looked like some kind of Navy uniform guided him around. Tony scarcely understood what he was saying; but the map he pointed out showed that the boat had gone to the Antarctic not once, but half a dozen times.


Whoever sailed down there on this little thing really had balls. But what the hell, so did Columbus.


The guy kept talking too fast for Tony to understand much of what he said; but Tony nodded and shook his head and said "s?" a lot, and he had the idea when the tour was finished that the guy really didn't suspect that he was an American.


He gave him some money, and from the way the guy beamed, suspected he had given him way too much.


Well, fuck it! Lieutenant Frade gave me two hundred bucks for miscellaneous expenses. This is a miscellaneous expense. I'm looking at ships.


When he went back on the wharf, he was tempted to have another ice cream, but remembering the room-temperature Coke, decided that wasn't such a hot idea.


Maybe I can find a restaurant with some Italian food, and something cold to drink. Then I will go buy some fucking wire. If they ask me what I want it for, I'll tell them I'm putting in a telephone extension.


He found what he was looking for: Ristorante Napoli. It was three blocks down a narrow cobblestone street, on the ground floor of a run-down building with light-blue shutters. The shutters were painted with what looked like watercolor paint that didn't cover the wood underneath all the way.


Every other Italian restaurant in Chicago is called Ristorante Napoli.


Inside, it was a dump. A small room and eight rickety tables covered with oilcloth. He walked in and looked down at one of the tables, not pleased with the cheap tableware and the battered glass, into which was rolled a thin paper napkin. But then the smell of basil, garlic, and fennel came to his nostrils, and he sat down.


A waiter, or maybe the owner, a none-too-clean white apron around his waist, walked into the room.


"Buenas tardes, Se?or."


"Parli Italiano?"


"Of course. You are Italian?"


"Yes."


"From the North," the man said, and then tapped his ear. "I myself am from Napoli, but I can hear the North."


Actually, I'm from Cicero, Illinois. I don't think I should tell you that, so if you think I am from the North of Italy, fine.


"Where?"


Shit! I know as much about Italy as I do about Argentina. Zero. Zilch.


"Far north. Up by the border."


"Perhaps near Santa del Moreno?"


"Not far," Tony said. He tapped his ear. "You have a fine ear, Se?or."


"It is something like a hobby for me," the man said. "I am told that I am very good at it."


"You're amazing."


"And how may I help you, Se?or?"


"I would like something cold to drink, and then I would like to eat."


"We have the Coca-Cola, and agua con gas."


"Coca-Cola."


"And have you considered what you would like to eat?"


Tony heard his father's voice in his ear:


"This only works in a little restaurant,"he said. "But if the guy running it is pushing something, take it. It's one of two things: He personally made it and he's proud of it. Or they made it yesterday and he's trying to get rid of it. You can always send it back.''


"You surprise me," Tony said.


"I will try to please. And a wine.'"


"You surprise me."


The first thing that appeared was the Coke and the wine. The Coke was cold, and Tony drained it and burped.


“Excuse me."


"It is nothing."


There was a whole bottle of wine. All I wanted was a glass, but what the hell. The man went through the wine-tasting ritual.


In a joint like this? But what the hell, he's trying.


"Very nice," Tony said. The man beamed and filled Tony's glass.


"What do you call it?"


"Vino tinto Rincon Famoso. It is Argentine. I would not want my mother to hear me say this, but I prefer it to the Italian."


"Very nice," Tony said, meaning it, even if it wasn't the Chianti he had hoped for.


Next came prosciutto— damned good prosciutto—on a plate with french fries.


"What do you call this in Spanish?" "Jamon cocido con papas fritas."


"Jamon cocido con papas fritas," Tony repeated. "Jamon cocido con papas fritas."


"Fine," the man said. "In no time you will learn Spanish. It is not that different from Italian."


“I hope," Tony said.


Yeah, it won't be long. I'll speak Spanish in a couple of months. If I'm still alive in a couple of months.


Next came a small plate of vermicelli with a tomato-and-pepper sauce. Washed down with a couple of glasses of vino tinto, it wasn't at all bad; but Tony was disappointed. He could have eaten two, three times as much.


The small portion was explained with the delivery of some kind of chicken.


"What's this?"


"Suprema a la Maryland."


"Maryland?"


The man shrugged. "It is something my mother taught me. The sauce is from bananas and corn. Perhaps it is Argentinean, not Italian."


You bet your ass it's not Italian. Grandma told me the first banana she ever saw was in Chicago, and that she tried to eat the peel, it looked so good.


Washed down with the rest of the bottle of vino tinto, the Suprema a la Maryland wasn't half as bad as he thought it would be.


Tony declined another bottle of wine— the last thing I can afford to do is get shitfaced—and dessert. He was full up.


"Magnifico," he declared, and asked for the bill. It was a hell of a lot cheaper than the last meal he'd had downtown.


"Do you know someplace I can buy some telephone wire?"


"Right around the corner," the man told him.


Tony consulted his pocket-sized Spanish-English/English-Spanish dictionary before entering the hardware store.


"Cable para el telefono, por favor?"


What looked like a hundred-foot roll of multistrand 16-gauge steel wire was produced. He would have preferred copper, but this would do.


And, hey, look at me, I'm speaking Spanish!


"How much?"


"How many meters will Se?or require?"


"All of it."


"This is all I have."


So what?


"I will require all of it. Where I wish to place the telephone is a long way from the wall."


The man shrugged, announced a price, and Tony paid him. The wire was neatly wrapped in an old newspaper and tied with string.


Tony returned to the street and headed back toward the waterfront. As he neared Ristorante Napoli, he saw a fine-looking female coming the other way. She looked out of place here—too well-dressed, like one of the Mi?as in the hotel. He wondered what she was doing in this neighborhood.


They met near the door to Ristorante Napoli. Tony smiled at her. She didn't respond, although he was sure she saw him smiling at her.


She looked right through me. Well, what the hell, the way I'm dressed, she probably decided I don't have any money. Or maybe she's not a Mi?a after all. She looks like a nice girl. Nice girls, nice Italian girls, always play hard to get.


And then she pushed open the door to the Ristorante Napoli and went in.


I'll be damned. That gives me two reasons to come back here.He reached the waterfront and started toward the bus stop.


He saw a taxi.


Fuck the bus. Lieutenant Pelosi has made all the sacrifices in the service of his country he intends to today.


He flagged the taxi down and told the driver to take him to the Alvear Palace Hotel.


Jesus, that was a good-looking woman!




[TWO]


Aboard MV Colonia


Rio de la Plata


0115 8 December 1942


"What do you say we go on deck and take the evening breeze?" First Lieutenant Cletus Howell Frade, USMCR, said to Second Lieutenant Anthony J. Pelosi, CE, USAR, as the waiter cleared their table.


"All right," Tony replied.


Clete stood up, peeled a couple of bills from a thick wad and tossed them casually on the table, then walked out of the dining room onto the deck.


The dining room, like their cabin, was on the bridge deck. There were benches along the bulkheads, and a dozen or so deck chairs. All the deck chairs were occupied, and people were scattered along the benches.


Clete looked aft. There was a glow on the horizon, obviously the lights of Buenos Aires. He estimated they were twenty-five, maybe thirty miles into the river. It was about a hundred twenty-five miles from Buenos Aires to Montevideo. The Colonia looked like a miniature ocean liner, and carried probably two hundred people. It sailed from Buenos Aires just after midnight, and would arrive in Montevideo at about nine in the morning. There were cabins, a dining room, a lounge, and a bar. You came aboard, had a drink and dinner, and then went to bed. When you woke up, you were in Uruguay. A couple of times Clete took the over-night boat from New York to Boston with his grandfather, when the Old Man had business with the Bank of Boston that had to be handled in person. The Colonia reminded him of that.


He led Pelosi forward, then down a ladder, then forward again, and down another ladder to the main deck. They stepped over a chain, with a sign in Spanish, "No Entry—Crew Only," hanging from it, and walked forward to the bow.


"That sign meant 'off limits,' didn't it?" Tony asked.


"Well, if somebody comes, we're just a couple of dumb Norteamericanos who don't speak Spanish. Besides, what they're worried about is a bunch of people out here lighting cigarettes, which will keep the helmsman and the officers on the bridge from seeing. No lights forward, in other words."


"No shit?"


"Would you like one of these?" extending to him a leather cigar case.


Tony considered the offer for a moment ... He gives me a speech about no cigarettes up here, and then pulls out cigars ...and then took a long, thin, black cigar.


"Thank you," he said.


"A fine conclusion to a splendid meal," Clete said.


"If you like eating at midnight."


"I wonder what they were serving at the O Club at Fort Bragg tonight? Three'll get you five it wasn't what we had."


"Jesus, their food is good, isn't it?" Tony said. "First-class steak!"


Clete handed him a gold cigarette lighter.


"You have to flip the top up first, and then spin the wheel," Clete explained. "I have the feeling that was made sometime around World War One."


Pelosi lit his cigar, then, hefting it, handed the lighter back.


"Heavy. Gold?"


"I'm sure it is. Nothing was too good for my uncle Bill."


"Excuse me?"


"My granduncle Guillermo. That was probably his. I found it and the cigar case in a drawer in his—now my—bedroom. I decided that if he had known what a splendid fellow I am, he would have left me both in his will, so I took possession."


Tony had to smile. He was glad it was too dark out here for the Pride of the Marine Corps to see his face.


"And the house, too?"


"The house belongs to my father. Uncle Bill lost it betting on the horses."


"No shit?"


"Uncle Bill was a man after my own heart. According to my father, he spent his life drinking good whiskey, laying all the women in Buenos Aires, gambling on horse races, and playing polo. I have decided I want to be just like him."


"You know how to play polo?"


"We used to play it at A and M. We called it polo, and I guess it was. But we did it on cow ponies, using brooms and a basketball."


"What's A and M? For that matter, what's a cow pony?"


"A and M, you ignorant city slicker, is the Texas Agricultural and Mechanical Institute. You really never heard of A and M?"


"Yeah. Now I know what it is. You went there?"


"For two years. I finished up at Tulane in New Orleans."


"So what's a cow pony?"


"A horse, most often what they call a quarterhorse, a small one, trained to work cattle. When we played 'polo,' the cow ponies made it clear they thought we were insane. We had them running up and down a field, and we were yelling and making a lot of noise, and there wasn't a cow in sight."


Pelosi chuckled.


"But you never played real polo?"


"No. I've been wondering if I could. Maybe. Christ knows, I grew up on a horse."


"Really?"


"On a ranch in West Texas. I was raised by my aunt and uncle."


"So those cowboy boots are for real? I thought maybe you thought they just looked good."


"They feel good. When I went in the Corps and had to wear what they call 'low quarter' shoes—do they call them that in the Army?—I felt like I was running around barefooted."


"Yeah, they do. When I went in the Army, the goddamned boots killed me. I was blisters all over. Then I got used to them, and then I got to wear jump boots, and they're really comfortable, and I felt the same way, barefoot, when I had to start wearing civilian shoes again."


"Well, keep your fingers crossed, and maybe pretty soon you can put your jump boots on again and get back to jumping out of perfectly functioning airplanes."


"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it," Tony said. "I like parachuting."


"I don't," Clete said. "I tried it once and hated it."


"How come you tried it?"


"There was a Japanese pilot who was much better than me," Clete said.


"No shit? You were shot down?"


"They warned us that the Japanese liked to shoot at people in parachutes, and that the thing to do was not pull the handle ..." He made a pulling gesture across his chest.


"The 'D Ring,' " Tony furnished.


"... until you were close to the ground. Or in my case, the water. So there I was," he gestured with his hands, "doing somersaults in the air, and every time I turned around—which seemed like twice a second—I looked at the water and tried to decide how close I was. Finally, I figured fuck it, and pulled the handle ..."


Tony, chuckling, corrected him again: "The D Ring."


"... and all of a sudden, it goes 'bloop,' jars the living shit out of me—I was sore between the legs for weeks—and then there's the water. Water is not always soft. And have you ever tried to swim wrapped in three square miles of parachute silk?"


"You didn't have your harness tight," Tony said. "That's one of the first things you learn, to make the harness tight."


"As I said, I tried it once and didn't like it. But you have fun, Tony. Each to his own."


Jesus, Mary and Joseph,Tony thought. That's a true story. He was out fighting the Japs and got shot down, and jumped, and fucking near killed himself not opening his 'chute in time. He may be a little stuck up, but he's no candy-ass.


"But you came out all right."


"They had PT boats patrolling between Guadalcanal and Tulagi. One of them saw me coming down, and they started firing at the Zero who was strafing me, chased him off, and then fished me out of the water. There was a guy—he commanded one of the other fighter squadrons, VMF-229—who went in the drink and spent twenty-four hours out there, floating around all by himself, before he was spotted and fished out. I don't think I could have taken that."


"Huh?"


"Waiting for the sharks. I think I would have gone nuts." Tony could imagine that. He felt a chill.


"You ever shoot down any Japs?"


There was a moment before Clete replied, ' 'I got lucky a couple of times."


"You going to tell me how many times?"


"Seven."


"You're an ace, then."


"Before I was dumb enough to volunteer for this, the Marine Corps was about to put me and a dozen other aces on display on the West Coast to sucker other innocent young men into volunteering for the crotch."


"The crotch"? What the hell is "the crotch"? Oh! He means the Marine Corps. If I called it "the crotch" he'd shit a brick.


"Was it as bad as they say on Guadalcanal?"


"It was unpleasant, Tony. Hot, humid, filthy, lousy food— much of it captured from the Japs—all kinds of bugs. And flying beat-up, shot-up, worn-out airplanes against Zeroes... a much better airplane, flown by pilots who were better than we were."


They weren't all better than you. Not if you shot down seven of them.


"You never talked about it before."


Clete shrugged. "Most people, civilians especially, don't understand."


"Can I ask you a question?"


"Sure."


"What are we doing here?"


"Hell, I thought you knew, Lieutenant Pelosi. Our contribution to the war effort is going to be to blow up a ship. That is, if people we must presume are far wiser than we are can make up their minds which ship, and tell us where it is, and how the hell we are supposed to blow it up."


Tony chuckled.


"I meant, where we're going?"


"Tomorrow morning, when we dock in Montevideo, we are going to a crude-oil terMi?al and make believe we know what we're doing as we examine the pipes and tanks and look at the books. Then we are going to a gambling casino for the night."


"A gambling casino?"


"You ever hear that line, 'theirs not to reason why, theirs but to ride into the valley of death'? In our case, it's walk into a gambling casino."


"And then what?"


"The next morning, we drive a rented car to a place called Punta del Este, where we take a swim. If Nes—the man who gave me our orders wasn't pulling my leg, the beaches of Punta del Este are crowded with good-looking women. Then, at night, we drive up to the Brazilian border, where they will air-drop your explosives to you."


"How are they going to do that?"


"I would presume from an airplane."


Tony chuckled.


"I meant how are we going to communicate with the drop aircraft?"


"I was told you were the air-drop expert."


"You need a radio to talk to the drop aircraft."


"I wondered about that. I do know that at specified times we are to turn the headlights on and off for sixty-second intervals. Maybe that'll be enough to let the guy flying drop the stuff to us."


"Who gives us our orders?"


"I can't tell you his name, Tony, sorry. But I think he knows what he's doing," Clete said seriously. "And I'm sure he's right about the way they do things. If you don't know his name, you can't tell anybody ... if, for example, we get caught and they start roasting you over a slow fire, or pulling your fingernails out."


"Can that happen?"


"I hope not."


“If everything goes all right, if everything works, and we blow up this fucking ship, then what? What happens to us?"


"I don't know. Maybe they'll want us out of Argentina, and maybe they'll want us to stick around doing something else until we do get caught, or until we win the war, whichever comes first."


"I wish to Christ I was back in the 82nd Airborne."


"And I almost wish I was back on Guadalcanal," Clete said. No, I don't, he thought. There is no Virgin Princess on Guadalcanal. "For what the hell it's worth, Tony. We had Marine paratroops on Tulagi, a battalion of them. They landed by ship, not by jumping. They got shit kicked out of them. More than ten percent killed. I think our odds are a little better than that; and in the meantime, it's clean sheets, steaks, and with a little bit of luck, a piece of ass in Punta del Este."


"I could use a little," Tony said. "I saw the most beautiful girl I ever saw in my life in Buenos Aires. I get a hard-on just thinking about her."


"Much the same thing, oddly enough, happened to me," Clete said.


He flicked his cigar over the rail.


"What do you say we hit the sack?"


"I never slept on a boat before," Tony confessed. "Do you get seasick in your sleep?"


"A ship," Clete corrected him. "A boat is a vessel you can carry aboard a ship. And no, if you were going to get seasick, you would be seasick by now."




[THREE]


El Casino de Carrasco


Montevideo, Uruguay


2000 8 December 1942


"Very nice," Lieutenant Pelosi observed to Lieutenant Frade as he inspected their suite—two bedrooms, plus sitting room and foyer.


"Try to remember you're an officer and a gentleman," Clete said, "and don't piss in the bidet."


"Screw you, Clete!"


Pelosi went to a window and hauled on the canvas tape that raised the heavy blinds over the French doors.


"Hey, the ocean's right out here!" Pelosi said, and then began to raise the other blinds.


"Jesus Christ, it really gets around, doesn't it? The last time I looked, it was in Miami."


"I mean we're facing the ocean, wise guy," Tony said, and opened one of the French doors. "And there's a balcony."


Clete followed him outside.


They were on the top floor of the ornate, stone, turn-of-the-century building. The balcony indeed faced an open body of water.


"The water's dirty," Tony observed.


"I think this is still the River Plate," Clete said. "You don't get to the Atlantic until you're in Punta del Este. That's up that-a-way, about a hundred miles." He pointed.


"That breeze feels good. Jesus, I hate this hot weather. You realize it's only a couple of weeks 'til Christmas? Sweating on Christmas!"


"Why don't we open all the blinds—in the bedrooms, especially—and the doors, to let the breeze in. And then go down and have dinner and see what happens? Play a little roulette, maybe?"


"Jesus, I'm still recovering from lunch, and we didn't eat that until three," Tony replied. "I think I'll just sit out here and watch the water go up and down."


"I don't think Ne—we were sent here to try our luck," Clete said. "And if someone were trying to contact us, they'd prefer to do it in a crowd, rather than up here in the room."


Tony considered that a moment, then said, “Let me take a leak. I'll be right with you."


When he came out of his bathroom, Clete handed him five fifty-dollar bills.


"What's this for?"


"To gamble. It's your Christmas present from the taxpayers of the United States."


"And what if I win?"


"You will be expected, of course, to turn all your winnings over to the government."


"In a pig's ass I will."


"Shame on you, Lieutenant Pelosi!"


They had a very good dinner in the dining room. It was in the center of the building, a large, somewhat dark space from whose three-story-high ceiling hung four enormous crystal chandeliers. A grand piano was at one end of the room, beside the bar, and a pianist played light classical music for most of their meal. Later it was replaced with a string quartet.


The room was full of prosperous-looking people, Clete thought; but nobody there was an aristocrat. Successful businessmen, he decided. Or ranchers in from the country for a night on the town. Moneyed, but not rich-rich like the sixteen or so people at Aunt Beatrice's and Uncle Humberto's dinner table.


Uncle Humberto's guests were rich-rich; they smelled of money and privilege. And they were simply fascinated with Dear Jorge's long-lost son. Half a dozen of them simply refused to speak Spanish with him, insisting on proving their worldliness by showing they spoke a second language as well as their native tongue.


He'd heard somewhere that in the Russian Court—before they booted the Czar out and murdered him and his family and threw their bodies down a well—the official language was French.


Clete thought of that after noticing that just about everybody had a pronounced loathing for the Russians, with a lesser but concomitant sympathy for the Germans.


Dear Beatrice's Poor Jorge had been murdered by the filthy communists, not killed in battle in Russia while accompanying an invading army. The Germans did not shoot their aristocracy, and they were engaged in fighting the filthy, godless communists. Thus, they could not be all bad.


This talk bothered him; but he managed to resist a growing temptation to mention the Germans' murder of several hundred thousand Jews—he was not sure if he believed Nestor's several millions figure; he didn't want to. But he didn't want to get in an argument with anybody either, not when Aunt Beatrice was liable to pop up at his side at any moment, and tell him again how much he looked like his mother and Poor Dear Jorge, both of them now together and with God and all the blessed angels ... and how they took baths together and splashed and laughed and were so happy when they were infants.


Aunt Beatrice was out of her mind; there was no question about that. But Uncle Humberto was worse. He was not floating around on a drug-induced cloud. He was in the here and now and knew what was going on. Humberto kept looking at Clete out of big, dark, immensely sad eyes— How is it that you are alive, and my Jorge is dead?—until he saw Clete looking back. Then he put on a wide, toothy, absolutely phony smile and gave him a thumbs-up sign.


The Mallins were there, of course. Not only were they part of that social circle, but it would be unthinkable not to invite them after they were so kind to Dear Cletus when he arrived.


The Mallins, less the Virgin Princess. Aunt Beatrice's dinner to meet Dear Jorge's son had been a grown-ups' party; children not welcome. Clete wasn't sure at first if he was relieved or disappointed, but soon admitted he was goddamned disappointed.


At least I could have looked at her every once in a while.


All things considered, it was a lousy evening at Aunt Beatrice's and Uncle Humberto's.


No one tried to speak to Clete or Tony at dinner, and there wasn't even any eye contact from the other diners.


Nor was there anyone who paid the slightest bit of attention to them in the casino, except when Tony delivered a loud Cicero, Illinois, "Oh, shit!" when he drew a king to a pair of fives and a two at the Vingt-et-Une table and dropped almost a thousand dollars.


By then it was midnight, and Clete decided he had been wrong about a possible contact in the casino. Nestor told him to spend the night here, he decided, because that's what an American in Uruguay on business would be expected to do.


"Let's go to bed," he said to a sad Tony Pelosi as he counted what was left of his money.


Tony was sad, but without good reason.


"I'm up six hundred over the two fifty you gave me," he announced in the elevator. "And if I hadn't gotten that fucking king!"


"Don't be greedy. Greedy gamblers always lose."


"My father says that all the time," Tony agreed. "You say that too?"


"I thought I made it up," Clete said, straight-faced.


Pelosi was in his room less than two minutes when Clete heard him call, excitedly, "Hey, Frade! Come in here."


Clete walked across the sitting room. Tony was in his underwear, and he was holding what looked like an oversized telephone to his ear.


"What the hell is that?"


"It's a walkie-talkie."


"A what?"


"A radio. A two-way radio!"


"That little thing?"


"I seen them demonstrated at Bragg. They're new. Not yet issued."


Pelosi pointed to a small leather bag on the bed, not much larger than a woman's purse.


"That was on the rack at the foot of the bed when I came in," Pelosi said. "With this inside."


He handed Clete a three-by-five-inch filing card—obviously American—on which was typewritten:




(1) Speak English


(2) Your call sign is''Hunter.''


(3) You will contact''Mallard.''


(4) You have 45 mins possible, 1 hr stretching it, battery power. (90 mins, 2 hrs, using

spare set)


(5) Leave walkie-talkies in Wardrobe Punta de E. on departure.




Clete took the radio from Tony and examined it dubiously. There was a nameplate on it:an/prc-6 motorola corp. Chicago, ill.


"These things really work?"


"Yeah. Well, now we know how we talk to the drop plane."


Clete put the walkie-talkie to his ear and heard a hiss.


"There's two of them?" he asked.


"Yeah. Take that one into your room, and we'll see if they work."


Clete went back to his room, examined the walkie-talkie again, pulled out an antenna that looked as if it should be mounted on a car fender, put the radio to his ear, and depressed a two-inch-long lever markedpress to talk.


"Dr. Watson, can you hear me?"


"Yeah. You're coming in five by five."


"I will be damned. Dr. Watson, over and out."


He walked back to Tony's room.


"What's the range of these things?" he asked.


"I don't know," Tony replied, thinking about it. "Maybe a mile. Maybe longer if we're talking to an airplane."


"Start thinking about how we can get these into Argentina,"


Clete said.


"We're supposed to leave them in the hotel in ... Where we going? Punta someplace?"


"Punta del Este. Fuck 'em. The first thing a Marine learns, Tony, is that when he puts his hands on a piece of equipment that works, he keeps it."




[FOUR]


La Posta de la Congrejo Hotel


Punta del Este, Uruguay


0005 10 December 1942


"You want to put the top down?" Lieutenant Frade inquired ofLieutenant Pelosi as they prepared to get in their rental car.


"Why not? We could see better."


The car was a 1937 Ford convertible sedan. They had a good deal of difficulty pulling the top down.


"The President probably has people who do this for him," Clete observed.


"What?"


"I said, Roosevelt probably has people who do this for him."


"What the hell are you talking about?"


"President Roosevelt has a car just like this. I don't think he could put the top down himself; he probably has an official top-putter-upper-and-downer."


"He's crippled. Polio. How the hell can he drive a car?"


"It has levers on the steering wheel. You never saw it in the newsreels?"


"Yeah, now that you mention it."


"How far is this place?"


"A hundred and twenty-five miles," Clete said. "According to the map, the road's a highway. I figure we can make forty miles an hour; that's three hours to get there. We have an hour, an hour and a halfs, cushion."


"You figuring this in miles or kilometers?"


"Miles. You know how to convert?"


"Sure," Tony said.


Bullshit. You don't know, but don't want to admit it.


"To get miles from kilometers, you divide the kilometers by eight, then multiply by five. Two hundred kilometers divided by eight is twenty-five. Times five is one twenty-five."


"Yeah, right. You want me to drive?"


"I'll drive. You work the map. I wish to hell we had a flashlight. Flashlights, plural."


"I got one," Tony said. "In the bag with the walkie-talkies."


"Good for you! You bring it with you?"


"No. But when I figured we would need one, I went to that little store on the main drag and said, 'Se?ora, una linterna, por favor,' and she sold me one."


"You should have bought two."


"I did, Lieutenant, Sir. I knew I had to take care of you."


"Insolence does not become you, Lieutenant."


The first fifty miles were on a macadam road on which they met few cars but a large number of open-bodied trucks of all sizes. In the direction of Montevideo, most of these were heavily laden with everything from firewood to cattle; but they were mostly empty headed north. Clete was not surprised when they reached the city of Rocha to find an all-night truck stop. He pulled in, gassed the car, and then he and Tony ate brochettes of beef, peppers, and onions cooked on an open fire. The beef was so tender, it had to be filet mignon.


A few miles out of Rocha, the pavement stopped abruptly, and they found themselves on a gravel road.


Christ, I should have thought about that!Clete realized, angry with himself. This is Uruguay, not Louisiana.


His concern proved unnecessary. The gravel road was wide and smooth and well cared for. Twice, the headlights picked up Caterpillar Road Graders and tractors with grading blades parked by the side of the road, which explained it.


Forty miles farther along, they came to a small town called Castillos, dark except for the bright lights of another all-night truck stop. Thirty-five miles past that they came to a still-smaller town, La Corinilla. They were almost at their destination. Finding it proved far easier than Clete thought it would be. Nestor's map was right on the money.


Three point seven miles past La Corinilla's Abierto Las 24 Horas truck stop, they turned right, drove 2.1 miles down a slightly more narrow, but equally well cared for gravel road, and then .6 miles down that, turned right again onto another fairly narrow road, drove .3 miles, and stopped.


In front of the car, as far as the headlights permitted him to see, the road was straight and level. On either side of the road there appeared to be swamp, but Clete finally realized these were rice fields.


He made a note of the odometer reading so he could return to this spot. And then they drove down the road. He went exactly a mile and stopped. The road and the rice fields stretched on, apparently to infinity. He looked at his watch, the Hamilton chronograph. It was two forty-five—0245. Even stopping for the brochettes and gas, they'd made much better time than he thought they would. And they weren't supposed to start flashing the headlights until 0400. They had an hour and fifteen minutes.


He turned the Ford around and headed back toward La Corinilla.


"Where are we going?" Tony asked.


"We have more than an hour. I don't think it's a good idea to just sit here. It might make somebody curious."


Do I mean that, or do I want a beer at that all-night truck stop?


"Shit, there's nobody out here. We haven't seen a car—or a light, for that matter—since we left that village."


"OK. You wait here, and I'll go back to the truck stop for a beer."


"The hell I will."


"I've been thinking about those whores," Tony announced as a plump woman in a dirty apron poured from their second liter bottle of cerveza.


Three minutes after they had put the walkie-talkies away, there was a knock at their door in the casino. Two very attractive, well-dressed women stood outside, in the corridor. The taller of the two—she had luxuriant reddish-brown hair—wondered if they might be interested in some companionship, if they hadn't lost all their money in the casino. Clete replied that would be a delightful experience, but unfortunately, he was waiting for his wife.


"First of all, they weren't whores, they were prostitutes; there's a difference. And secondly, shame on you."


"You weren't interested?" Tony asked. "Christ, they were really good-looking!"


"Well, I have this problem, Tony. I have the honor of the Marine Corps to think of. Marine officers don't pay women; it's the other way around."


"Oh, shit," Tony groaned.


"There wasn't time, and I didn't think it was such a good idea," Clete explained.


Not for the sake of the efficient execution of my assigned mission,he thought, but because the dark and innocent eyes of the Virgin Princess seemed to be looking at me.


"Well, I don't mind telling you I was tempted. I haven't had any in a long time. You bastards didn't give me any time in New Orleans..."


"Webastards?"


"... and when I was on leave at home, my brothers insisted on showing me a good time; they never left me alone."


"Your brothers don't like women?"


"One of them is a priest."


"Oh. Tough luck. Well, you shouldn't have any trouble getting the wick dipped in B.A., Tony. There's women all over."


"I'm working on a little something," Tony said. He was think ing of the girl he had seen go in the Ristorante Napoli in La Boca.


I'm going back there and just hang around and look for her,he thought. That is, if we get back, and don't get stood against some wall and shot for trying to smuggle twenty pounds of molded Composition C4 and walkie-talkies into Argentina.


He picked up his beer glass.


"Isn't it about time we started back?"


"Jesus Christ, it's dark out here," Tony said. "There's not a goddamned light anywhere!"


"Shut up!" Clete ordered abruptly.


He thought he had heard the sound of an aircraft engine, a little one, probably a Lycoming. And then he was sure.


"Get on the horn," he ordered as he reached for the headlight switch.


"It's not 0400," Tony protested.


"Goddamn it, do what you're told."


"Mallard, Mallard," Tony complied. "This is Hunter, Hunter. Over."


There was an immediate reply.


"Hunter, Mallard," an American voice said. "How do you read? Over."


"Five by five. Over."


"Hunter, leave your lights on."


"Mallard, roger your lights on," Tony said, and then repeated the order to Clete.


"Roger, I have you in sight. Is the road clear? How do you estimate the wind?"


"He wants to know if the road is clear and about the wind," Tony relayed.


Clete stuck his index finger in his mouth and then extended his arm over his head. Then he took the walkie-talkie from Tony and pressed thepress-to-talk switch.


I think that crazy sonofabitch is about to try to put it down! Why else would he ask about the road being clear?


"Mallard, winds from the north negligible, I say again, negligible. The road is paved with gravel and clear. I say again, paved with gravel and clear."


"OK, Hunter, here we go."


Without realizing they had done so, both Tony and Clete had gotten to their feet, and they were now standing on the seat of the Ford, their waists about at the level of the top of the wind-shield. They could hear the sound of the aircraft engine, but all they could see of it was the orange glow of the engine exhaust, and there was no way to judge from that where the aircraft was. And then the exhaust glow disappeared.


Suddenly, blinding them, a landing light came on, and the sound of the engine changed as the pilot retarded the throttle. The landing light lined up with the road, and dropped lower and lower. It was impossible to see the airplane against the brilliance of its landing light, but Clete heard a chirp of wheels and then a rumble as it touched down. The landing light died into an orange glow, but it took their eyes some time to readjust.


And then there was an orange Piper Cub taxiing up to the grille of the Ford.


"I will be a sonofabitch!" Tony said as he jumped over the side of the Ford. Clete went over the other door and followed Tony to the airplane as the pilot, in a summer-weight flying suit, got out.


"God bless the Army Air Corps," Clete said to the pilot as he put out his hand.


"Actually, I'm an Engineer officer," the pilot said. "I'm an Army Liaison Pilot, teaching the Brazilians to direct artillery fire."


"Corps of Engineers?" Tony said delightedly. "Me too."


"I thought you guys were in the OSS," the pilot said.


“Never believe what anybody over the grade of captain tells you," Clete said, "as we say in the Marine Corps."


"Marine Aviator? You sounded like a pilot, on the horn."


"Fighter pilot, way out of his element," Clete said. "I thought you were supposed to air-drop this stuff."


"The Air Corps wanted to. They were going to make a big deal of this, come in with a C-47, drop some pathfinder in first, then drop this stuff with a great big fucking cargo parachute, you know how they are. I figured, shit, this stuff doesn't weigh fifty pounds altogether, I can put it in the backseat. So I came over— lost, of course—here yesterday, and took a look, and here I am. What is that stuff, anyway? It looks like boards."


"It's supposed to," Tony said. "It's Composition C4. They molded it to look like wood boards."


"Then that explains what your guy meant when he said 'be damned careful with these.' Detonators, right?"


Tony took the small package the pilot extended to him and opened it.


"Right," he said. "I hope you didn't have this near the explosives."


"I had it on my lap."


"Jesus!" Tony said.


"Let's get me unloaded and out of here," the pilot said. "I'd love to stay and chat, but I really don't want to know what you guys are going to do with that stuff, and I don't want to spend the war in a Uruguayan jail."


Three minutes later, he was gone.


When Clete got behind the wheel of the Ford and pressed the starter, the battery was dead. Tony, sweating and swearing, had to push the car to get it started. But in another three minutes, they too were gone.




Chapter Twelve




[ONE]


Aboard the General Belgrano


Rio de la Plata


0945 13 December 1942


Shortly after they sailed from Lisbon, Captain Manuelo Schirmer, master of the General Belgrano, began to extend to Hauptmann Freiherr von Wachtstein of the Luftwaffe certain privileges. First, that of his table. At the start of the voyage, Peter was assigned to an eight-place table in the dining room. When he arrived for lunch, six other people were there, a middle-aged Argentinean couple and a somewhat younger German couple and their two children. When he politely asked about their home, they replied they were from Heidelberg, then made it quite clear they were not interested in conversation.


When he went in for dinner, the steward intercepted him and led him to the captain's table. This was placed lengthwise across the back of the room and was set with ten places, all on one side.


"Mi Capitan," the steward said, addressing a stocky, blond-haired man in his forties, who was wearing a uniform blouse with four gold stripes on each sleeve over a navy-blue turtleneck sweater. "El Capitan von Wachtstein."

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