Honor Bound

You're not just talking assassination, Herr Oberst. Murder. You're talking about brutal, cold-blooded murder!

"... that would certainly get in the newspapers. Even in the Gottverdammte Buenos Aires Herald,” Gr?ner said.

"Oberst Frade won't believe it."

"It doesn't matter if he does or not."

He looked at Peter, and Peter understood that he expected approval, perhaps even enthusiastic approval.

"May I ask two questions, Herr Oberst?"

"Of course."

"Hypothetically, of course."

"Of course."

"If this were to happen, wouldn't Oberst Frade suspect something?"

"He is a very intelligent man. I'm sure he would."

"And, Herr Oberst, wouldn't he hate us for killing his son?"

"Yes, of course he would hate us. And yes, he is a powerful man. But according to my information, he does not at this point absolutely control the G.O.U. And his power would be weakened when the word spread that his son was an OSS agent."

But, goddamn you, you don't know that he is!

What's the difference? The interests of Germany require that Clete be “removed.” This is simply a way of accomplishing that "removal" in the most efficacious way.

"Even though the other members of the G.O.U. would sympathize with Oberst Frade's loss, they would still question whether Frade had a connection with the Americans that he has concealed from them. Oberst Frade has too much invested in the G.O.U. to risk losing his influence there. That means he must minimize his relationship with his son ... and thus with the Americans. Like you and me, Peter, and like Willi, he is a soldier. He knows that one most accept one's losses and get on with the mission."

"Herr Oberst, I'm flattered, but more than a little surprised that you have taken me into your confidence."

"This was just a hypothetical discussion, Peter. And, hypothetically, don't you think that a man in my position can safely trust a man who comes from a distinguished military lineage? Who has risked his life for my son? And who wears the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross as proof of his dedication to Germany?"

"I will try to prove myself worthy of your confidence, Herr Oberst."

I didn't get the goddamned Knight's Cross for cold-blooded murder. And part of my distinguished military heritage includes a concept of honor.

"I'm sure you will, Peter."

“May I infer, Herr Oberst—hypothetically—that Ambassador von Lutzenberger is not aware of your plans?"

"He is not. But he will approve ex post facto. He has nothing to lose."

But my friend Clete does.

"One final hypothetical question, Herr Oberst?"

"One final question."

"Can you trust the people you mentioned to carry out the plan?"

"To carry out my instructions? Absolutely. I pay them well, and they are violent men. Do I trust them? Absolutely not. After they do what they have been hired to do, they will leave Buenos Aires for Paraguay. I have given them the address of a hotel in Encarnacion, a small town just across the border, where they expect to take a holiday until things calm down here in Buenos Aires. In fact, others will meet them there; and that is the last anyone will ever see of them."

Two more murders. Maybe three, or even four. You are a coldblooded bastard, aren't you, Herr Oberst?

"I am really not qualified to judge a plan like this, Herr Oberst," Peter said. "But for what it's worth, it seems to me you have covered every contingency."

[TWO]

Suite 701

The Alvear Palace Hotel

Buenos Aires

0915 19 December 1942

In response to the fifteenth or twentieth ring of the telephone on the table beside his bed, Hauptmann Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein finally sat up abruptly and answered it.

"Buenos dias, Se?or," an outrageously courteous, infuriatingly cheerful female voice came over the line. "It is nine o'clock, Se?or."

"Gracias," Peter said, picking up a stainless-steel-cased wrist-watch from the bedside table and with some effort focusing his eyes on it. It informed him that it was not nine, but 09:15:40.

"I will require immediately a pot of coffee," he ordered. The way his tongue felt, like a North African desert, he was surprised that he could speak at all.

"I will connect you with Room Service, Se?or. Un momento, por favor."

He looked at the watch again as he replaced it on the bedside table. It was a U.S. government-issue Hamilton chronograph identical to the one he had spotted on the wrist of Lieutenant Cletus Frade of the flying service of the Corps of U.S. Marines, who would have his throat cut tonight.

This Hamilton had been issued to the pilot of a U.S. Army Air Corps B-26 Peter shot down over Cherbourg. An Abwehr Hauptmann showed up at the squadron's officers' mess the same night and announced that Peter's brilliant aerial victory—having been witnessed by three reliable spectators—was confirmed and made a matter of official record; and the Hauptmann thought the Hauptmann Freiherr might like the watch as a souvenir (the Hauptmann took it from the pilot during interrogation).

Peter did not immediately reply. He was a little drunk at the time, but sober enough to recognize the foolhardiness of lecturing an Abwehr captain—who goddamned well should have known it—that stealing from prisoners of war was not only a violation of the Geneva Convention, but a pretty goddamned dishonorable thing for an officer to do.

"And where is the prisoner now, Herr Hauptmann?"

"He has been taken to the Central Detention Facility outside Paris, Herr Hauptmann Freiherr. At Senlis."

"And do you happen to have this officer's name, Herr Hauptmann?"

"Not at the moment, Herr Hauptmann Freiherr," the asshole replied, and then the confusion on his face was replaced by comprehension. "Of course, I should have thought of that myself. It will have more meaning to you if you know his name. I will find it for you."

It will also permit me to return this officer's watch to him, preferably in person, together with an apology from one officer to another for the shameful behavior of an asshole wearing a German officer's uniform.

"I would be very grateful, Herr Hauptmann." "My great pleasure, Herr Hauptmann Freiherr." I never got the poor bastard's watch back to him. When the Abwehr asshole never sent me his name, I just kept it. Good watch. I'm glad I wasn't wearing it when I met Cletus. He wouldn't have understood.

Yeah, Cletus would have understood.

And what the hell am I going to do about Cletus? Simply sit around with my finger in my ass waiting for Herr Oberst Gr?ner to happily inform me that his Argentine gangsters have followed his neat little Operational Plan and cut Clete's throat?

"Buenos dias, Room Service."

"This is Se?or von Wachtstein in 701. Will you send up a pot of coffee, please? Right away?" He looked at the Hamilton chronograph again. "How long will that take?"

"I will have it there within half an hour, Se?or."

That means an hour. I don't have an hour. Goddamn it!

"Forget it, thank you just the same."

He hung up, then walked quickly to the bathroom and stood under the cold shower for five minutes. Then he shaved, cutting himself twice in the process, put on his winter dress uniform, and left his suite.

In the elevator, he felt woozy.

I have to put something in my stomach, or I will be one of those poor bastards that fall on their face during the ceremony. Wasn't there a restaurant in the lobby?

There was, in a wide corridor to his right when he stepped off the elevator. He walked to it, found a small table, and sat down! He looked around for a waiter. Several of them were standing near a buffet table. He finally managed to attract one's attention.

"Coffee, por favor, and a pastry of some kind."

"Se?or," the waiter said. "It is a buffet. Complimentary to guests of the hotel. Se?or is a guest?"

"Yes, of course I am," Peter replied, and took a closer look at the buffet. A line of prosperous-looking people were there. A man inclined his head toward him and smiled. And another did the same.

What the hell is that all about? Oh, hell, of course. These people are here for the funeral, and they are being charming to the young man whose dress uniform and Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross tell them he is the man who brought poor Whatsisname 's body home for burial.

Peter smiled and nodded back.

Do I have that goddamned thing on right?

He looked down at his chest. He didn't have the goddamned thing on at all.

"Se?or," the waiter asked. "Would you be so kind as to give me your name and room number?"

Peter looked at him.

He reached in his pocket and came out with money.

"I am Hauptmann Freiherr von Wachtstein," he said. "I am now going to my room, Number 701, where I forgot something. When I return, if there is a glass of orange juice and a coffee cup with a double cognac in it on this table, this is yours."

"It will be my great pleasure," the waiter said with a smile.

Why the hell not? He works in a hotel. I am not the first painfully hung-over guest he has seen.

When he returned with his Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross in its proper place on his uniform and walked as straight as he could to the table, even more people smiled at him.

And there was a large glass of orange juice on the table, plus a glass of soda water, and a coffee cup filled to the brim with a dark substance that was not coffee.

If anyone thought it was strange that the young German officer gulped down half the orange juice, mixed the rest of it with coffee poured from his cup, gulped that down, diluted the last of the coffee with soda water, and then gulped that down, he was of course too polite to remark on it.

Three minutes after he returned to the dining room, Hauptmann Freiherr von Wachtstein marched erectly out of the dining room, through the lobby, out the door, and turned left down Avenida Alvear toward the Duarte mansion.

A long line of people sought entrance to the mansion, many with their invitations in their hands. The line stretched from the door out onto Avenida Alvear. Mounted troopers of the Husare de Pueyrred?n, already showing signs of the heat, lined the driveway, while policemen—and men in civilian clothing who looked like plainclothes policemen—kept a watchful eye on those waiting to enter the mansion.

I don't have an invitation. I don't suppose I need one, but I don't think I should just go to the head of the line and announce my arrival. I'll stand in line and see what happens.

Just inside the gate, a large, smoothly shaved man in civilian clothing eyed Peter unabashedly for a full thirty seconds, then walked toward him.

"El Capitan von Wachtstein?"

"S?."

"Let this gentleman pass," the man ordered the policemen.

"He is with the family."

When Peter walked to him, he explained, "Mi Capitan, I am Enrico. If you will come with me, please, Sir, I will take you to el Coronel."

"Gracias," Peter said.

Enrico did not look entirely at ease in his blue business suit, and he had the somewhat stiff walk—as if on parade—of the long service sergeant.

Enrico was almost certainly Suboficial Mayor Enrico,Peter thought. Clete told me about him, an old soldier who worked for el Coronel Frade from the time el Coronel was a teniente. They are a type. For twenty-five years, my father had Oberfeldwebel Manntz running his errands, taking care of him, until Manntz's luck ran out in Norway.

Enrico marched him past the door of the house, where people were checking invitations against a typewritten list, then through the foyer, where the late Capitan Duarte's casket rested on a catafalque, and into a small sitting room.

“If the Capitan would be so good as to wait here, I will tell el Coronel that you have arrived."

Enrico headed for a man wearing an ornate uniform that looked like a costume for a Viennese light opera about shenanigans in some obscure Balkan dukedom. Jesus Christ, he realized somewhat belatedly, that's Cletus's father!

Beatrice Frade de Duarte, wearing a black silk dress, a hat with a veil, and a single strand of enormous pearls, saw him first. She came quickly across the room, took his arm, and led him into the presence of Cletus's father.

“Capitan von Wachtstein,” she said, as if they were at a dress ball, "may I present my brother, el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade?"

"A sus ?rdenes, mi Coronel," Peter said, then clicked his heels and bowed, which caused him to feel alarmingly light-headed.

"Capitan von Wachtstein is the officer who brought Jorge home, Jorge," Se?ora de Duarte said.

"So I have been informed," el Coronel Frade said. "Might I have a word with you, Capitan?"

"Of course, mi Coronel."

Frade took his arm and led him out of the foyer down a corridor into the kitchen. He went to a refrigerator, took out a lemon, sliced it into thirds, and handed one of the thirds to Peter.

"If you eat the whole thing, skin and all, it will probably mask the fumes of the cognac," Frade said.

Oh, shit!

"Apologies are in order. I extend them. And I thank you," Peter said, and put the piece of lemon in his mouth, chewed it, and swallowed it.

"I cannot ask an apology from you for doing exactly what I have been doing," Frade said. Peter looked at him in surprise. "I required the same liquid courage," Frade went on. "If I had not arranged for the Ministry of Defense to approve my nephew's idiot notion to go to Germany, neither of us would be here."

What an astonishing thing to say!

"Oh damn you, Jorge, you promised!" a very striking middle-aged woman said, mingled anger and resignation in her voice. "And don't try to tell me that lemon is for tea."

"That is exactly what it's for," Frade said. "El Capitan von Wachtstein and I are about to have a cup of tea. And then I thought I would offer the Capitan a little liquid courage to help him through this .. . this obscene ceremony."

"Jorge!"

"Capitan, may I present Se?ora Carzino-Cormano, who has the odd notion that she is entitled to treat me like a child."

"Encantado, Se?ora," Peter said, and clicked his heels and bowed again.

"If you are visibly drunk, I will never forgive you," Claudia said to Frade, ignoring Peter.

"I am never visibly drunk."

"Cletus just arrived," Claudia said. "Just as you came in here."

"The Se?ora, Capitan," Frade said, "refers to my son, late Teniente of the U.S. Corps of Marines aviation service. He served with great distinction at Guadalcanal. Presumably, you have heard of Guadalcanal?''

"Jorge, my God!" Claudia protested, and turned to Peter. "You must excuse el Coronel, Capitan. He mourns the death of his nephew more than he is willing to admit."

Alicia Carzino-Cormano walked up to them.

Remarkably beautiful young woman!

"Cletus is here," Alicia said to her mother, then turned to Frade: "I think he's looking for you."

"Captain, this is my daughter, Alicia," Claudia Carzino-Cormano said.

"Hauptmann Freiherr von Wachtstein at your service, Se?orita."

Isabela Carzino-Cormano walked up and smiled dazzlingly at Peter.

"I don't believe I have the privilege of this gentleman's acquaintance," she said.

Frade, ignoring her, took Peter's arm.

“Perhaps you would like to meet my son," he said.

"Jorge, damn you!" Claudia said. "How much have you had?" Then she turned and smiled at Peter. "And my other daughter, Capitan, Isabela," Claudia said.

"Encantado, Se?orita," Peter said.

Not nearly as beautiful as the sister.

Frade tugged at his arm.

"I have the privilege of the Herr Lieutenant Frade's acquaintance, mi Coronel."

"The privilege of his acquaintance?" Isabela asked incredulously. "Isn't he your enemy?"

"I met him briefly," Peter went on, "when enjoying the hospitality of your Guest House, mi Coronel."

Not briefly. We got drunk together. We were not enemies, but pilots talking about flying.

"Though el Capitan and my son, Isabela," Frade proclaimed, "are officers of opposing military services, they are first and foremost officers and gentlemen. They bear each other no personal animosity. Isn't that so, Capitan?"

"S?, mi Coronel."

"That's outrageous!" Isabela said. "The Capitan is agreeing with you to be polite."

Frade snorted.

"Tell her, Capitan. She has her mother's inability to conceive that she could possibly be wrong."

"No tea for you," Claudia said. "Coffee. Several cups. Right now. You must again forgive el Coronel, Capitan. His behavior is inexcusable."

"Forgive me, Se?ora," Peter said. "El Coronel is quite correct. I bear Herr Lieutenant Frade no ill will. In other circumstances, I feel sure we could become friends."

On the other hand, I am obviously perfectly willing to sit here with my finger in my ass doing nothing to warn him that he's going to be murdered.

But, of course, I can't do that. From the moment Gr?ner told me his plans, I knew I wouldn't be able to just let things happen. I will warn him.

But how?

Perhaps if I went to von Lutzenberger and told him, he would order Gr?ner to call off his thugs. But Gr?ner would certainly work out where von Lutzenberger got his information. And if von Lutzenberger decides that Cletus is expendable, and that I should just stay out of it, then I could not warn Cletus; Gr?ner and von Lutzenberger would both know I told him.

And Gr?ner would call that "giving aid and comfort to the enemy.''

Enrico appeared.

"Mi Coronel, there is a German officer looking for el Capitan. I put him in the small office off the library."

Gr?ner with the Knight's Cross and the goddamned pillow,Peter thought.

"I will take you to him," Frade announced.

"No, you won't," Claudia said. "You will stay here and have coffee. Alicia, would you please take el Capitan to the library?"

Alicia took von Wachtstein's arm.

"Yes, of course, Mother," she said, smiling sweetly at her sister.

Chapter Sixteen

[ONE]

1420 Avenue Alvear

Buenos Aires. Argentina

1430 19 December 1942

Clete Howell wasn't able to get anywhere near Aunt Beatrice's house in the Buick. So he parked three blocks away. As he uneasily left the car, the maid's lecture on crime in the streets of Buenos Aires was very much on his mind. Then he stood in line. When he reached its head, he encountered a polite but firm plain-clothes policeman, who seemed deeply saddened to inform him that without an invitation he could not enter the mansion.

Everything is going splendidly,Clete thought. Getting better and better every day in every way. Not only did that bastard Nestor as much as accuse me of cowardice for telling him the truth, but now they won't let me into a funeral I don't want to go to in the first place.

The more he thought about flying a TBF down from Brazil to torpedo the Reine de la Mer, the more it seemed like a good idea ... the best he could come up with.

Or do I like it mostly because Nestor thinks it is a bad idea? Nestor was probably right when he said that the OSS brass decided against taking out theReine de la Mer with a torpedo-carrying airplane ... just as they must have turned down the idea of taking it out with a B-17 from Brazil.

The problem with the B-17 is that it has a lousy record against shipping. And the TBF idea was rejected, in all probability, because it does not have the range to make it from wherever they are operating in Brazil to theReine de la Mer in Samboromb?n Bay.

It doesn't. And since Uruguay is neutral, the brass obviously concluded that a TBF could not file a flight plan to an en route airport, where the pilot could sit down and tell the ground crew to top off the tanks, and then ask for the weather between there and Samboromb?n Bay. And the brass also understandably decided that it could not sit down on a dirt road somewhere in the middle of nowhere and get refueled. The landing gear of a TBF was designed for use on the paved runways of an airfield, or else on the deck of an aircraft carrier.

But what it was designed for is not the same thing as what it is capable of doing. That was proved at Henderson Field on Guadalcanal. Henderson was a hell of a lot rougher than the dirt road where the guy put down his Piper Cub— especially after the Japanese spent all night shelling it, and the holes were quickly and not too neatly filled in by Marine bulldozers.

But the Cactus Air Force— including yours truly, on occasion— operated TBFs out of there just about every day. Even with a torpedo in its belly, I could sit a TBF down on that dirt road. Nice, long, slow approach to grease it in. And I only have to make that one landing.

Or why not? Maybe two. After I put the torpedo into theReine de la Mer, I could go back to the dirt strip, take on some more fuel, and fly back to Brazil. The second landing would be easier; the torpedo would be gone. God knows that would be better than jumping out over the estancia. I really don't want to do that. Tony may think that parachute jumping is the next-greatest thing to sex, but it scared the hell out of me when I bailed out.

Could I hit theReine de la Mer? Why not? All you have to do is fly close enough so there's no chance to miss. You've been shot at before; you just don't pay attention to it. And I don't think that people on the Bofors and the machine guns will have had much experience. A low-flying airplane has a much better chance against them than against Japanese gunners.

I think I could reason with Colonel Graham about this, tell him I know what I'm talking about, and convince him that my idea stands a much better chance of working than anything else I can think of.

The question then becomes, how do I get in touch with Colonel Graham? I can't use commercial, Mackay or RCA, to send him a cable. Argentine Intelligence certainly reads commercial cables. And Nestor won't let me use the Embassy's communications or codes.

That leaves the destroyer. “Good afternoon, Captain. I'm Lieutenant Frade of the Marine Corps down here on a classified mission, and I need your radios to complain about my orders.”

Hell, just tell him the truth. Let him see the message to Colonel Graham. He may understand it and send it for me. Or he may think I'm some kind of lunatic and throw me off his destroyer. In which case, I'd be no worse off than I am now.

TheAlfred Thomas gets here Christmas Eve. I'll be waiting for her. That's the only real option I have, convincing her captain to let me get in touch with Colonel Graham.

Do I really have the balls to fly close enough to her to make absolutely sure the torpedo strikes? Into all that antiaircraft? Watching the TBF guys do that, I was perfectly willing to admit they had much bigger balls than I do.

I don't have any choice; that's the only way. . .

"This is the son of el Coronel Frade," he heard Enrico indignantly announce to the plainclothes policeman who wouldn't let him in. "He does not need an invitation!"

Enrico led him into the reception hall, where an honor guard of the Husares de Pueyrredon stood guard at the corners of the casket.

His father and his aunt and uncle were nowhere in sight. They were probably in the library. He decided against trying to find them. Uncle Humberto's "why Jorge and not you" look made him very uncomfortable.

A hand touched his arm.

"Cletus!" Dorotea Mallin said.

He turned to her. She kissed his cheek, really kissed it, not the air kiss American women give to casual acquaintances. As she came close to him, her breast pressed against his arm.

Jesus Christ, don't do that! Even if you don't know what you're doing.

He next accepted a kiss from Se?ora Mallin, then a kiss from the Mallin boy, Enrico—an Argentinean custom that bothered him a little. And he finally shook hands with Se?or Mallin himself. Mallin smiled broadly, but Clete had a strange feeling that he was not nearly as delighted to see him as he claimed he was.

"On our way here, we saw a Buick convertible," Dorotea said. "A beautiful machine. Was that yours, Cletus?"

"If it was parked three blocks away, it probably was."

"But you promised to take me for a ride just as soon as it arrived," she pouted.

"Soon, Princess," he said.

To judge by the look in his eyes, Big Ernie considers calling her ' 'Princess'' about on a par with calling her a Mi?a.

"Tomorrow?" the Virgin Princess pursued.

"Tomorrow, Dorotea, is out of the question," Mallin said quickly. "You know we are going to Punta del Este this afternoon."

"I loathe and detest Punta del Este," Dorotea announced.

"And Se?or Frade has more important things to do than take a young girl like you riding in his car," Mallin added. "People would talk."

"Henry!" his wife protested. "What a thing to say!"

"People can talk about me all night and all day, for all I care," Dorotea said.

"Perhaps when you come back from Punta del Este, Princess," Clete said.

Why the hell did I say that?

"And I would love to have a ride in your car, Clete," Se?ora Mallin said.

"And myself as well," Little Henry said.

"Certainly," Clete said.

"If you will excuse us, Se?or?" Mallin said. "I see your aunt. We should pay our respects."

"I will telephone the moment we come back from Uruguay," Dorotea said, and stood on her toes to kiss his cheek again, thereby once more pressing her breasts against his chest.

Oh, Jesus Christ, I wish you wouldn't do that, Princess!

"You will see, Pamela," Mallin said, "that she does no such thing."

Pamela de Mallin winked at him.

A moment later, Enrico came out of a corridor, followed by Peter von Wachtstein, with Alicia Carzino-Cormano holding his arm, an arrangement both seemed to find delightful. Isabela trailed along behind them, looking more than a little unhappy.

Unhappy,Clete thought, as in pissed, because Alicia is on Peter's arm, where she realizes she doubtless wants to be . . . rather than playing the role she's chosen for herself as the grief-stricken near-fianc?e of the late Captain Duarte.

When Clete's eyes met his, von Wachtstein changed course.

"Buenos dias, Teniente," he said.

"Mi Capitan," Clete said. "That's quite a uniform. And the Se?oritas Carzino-Cormano, what a joy it is to see you again!"

Alicia smiled warmly; Isabela icily. Neither said anything.

"Your father, Teniente, has been explaining to the Se?oritas Carzino-Cormano and her mother that while we are officers of opposing military forces, we bear each other no personal ill will.

I thought I would greet you to make that point."

"In other words, Se?oritas," Clete said with a slow grin, "while it would give me the greatest of professional pleasure to shoot el Capitan down, I would hope to do so while smiling with warm affection at him."

"Precisely," Peter said. "But I would be unhappy in such an encounter because it would be ungentlemanly of me to take advantage of an inferior foe."

"We will have to try it sometime," Clete said. "In a spirit, of course, of friendship and professional admiration, mi Capitan."

"Teniente, I would not have it otherwise."

"El Capitan is a credit to the officer corps," Clete said.

"How kind of you, Teniente, to say so."

"De nada, mi Capitan."

It occurred to Isabela Carzino-Cormano that they both were mocking her. For a moment, Clete thought she was about to storm away angrily, but she didn't. Her smile, however, became even more icy.

"I saw your little friend around here a moment ago," she said. "I can't imagine what happened to her."

"What little friend?" Peter asked.

I think you're crocked, Peter. And now that I've thought about that, that cloud of fumes around you is not eau de cologne.

"I think, Se?orita Carzino-Cormano," Clete said, "that it was time for the lady in question's bottle. But I appreciate your interest in my personal life."

Hauptmann Freiherr von Wachtstein bowed and clicked his heels.

"It has been a pleasure to see you again, Teniente," he said. "But now duty calls."

"The pleasure has been mine, mi Capitan," Clete said.

"Watch out for bandits coming out of the sun, Clete," Peter said.

He is crocked. Why else would he say something like that? And why the hell is he shitfaced now? At this hour, and with all the brass around?

"What did you say?" Isabela asked.

"I will try, mi Capitan," Clete said.

"We always say, in the Luftwaffe, that it is the ones you don't see that get you,” Peter said.

"We say much the same thing in the Marine Corps," Clete said. "And that has been my personal experience."

Peter made another curt bow of his head and clicked his heels, and let Alicia lead him to the library. Clete saw Enrico waiting for them there.

[TWO]

Wearing a splendiferous uniform complete with saber, el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade appeared then, under the firm control of Se?ora Carzino-Cormano.

"Cletus, what are you doing standing out here?" Claudia demanded. "Your place is with the family."

"Probably counting his blessings," Frade said, and before Claudia could stop him, went on. “I rather hoped you would wear your uniform with your decorations."

"I don't have my uniforms with me," Clete said.

"Pity," he said. "I took the trouble to look it up in the Encyclopedia Britannica. The Corps of Marines dress uniform is splendid."

He's crocked too. Is that the local custom? Is this thing going to be sort of an Argentinean Irish wake?

"Come with us, Cletus," Claudia said, taking his arm and leading them both across the room.

[THREE]

The Basilica of St. Pilar

Recoleta Square

Buenos Aires

1325 19 December 1942

In the ecumenical belief that any religion is better than none, when Martha Howell was for some reason unavailable to drag Clete and the girls to Midland's Trinity Episcopal Church, she permitted Juanita the housekeeper to drag them to the Roman Catholic parish known in Midland as the Mexican Catholic Church. Clete was therefore no stranger to a Roman Catholic mass celebrated by Spanish-speaking clergy.

It was, however, his first high requiem mass; and while he expected the ceremony to run long—the personal participation of the Cardinal Archbishop brought at least five other bishops, an abbot, and a platoon of other magnificently robed clergy to the Basilica—he never imagined it would go on as long as it did.

Everyone was seated European style on hardback chairs. He was seated in the third row from the altar. The other chairs in the first rows were occupied by the other members of the family, and by dignitaries of church and state. For the first forty minutes or so of the mass, he studied their uniforms and regalia with a mild interest, and then he wondered where the Virgin Princess was

sitting.

Both Big Henry and Little Henry Mallin walked in the ranks behind the caisson after they carried Jorge's casket out of the house, but he didn't see Dorotea there or her mother.

The women bring up the rear in this society. I wonder how Claudia Carzino-Cormano puts up with that.

Answer: She gets no gold stars to take home to Mommy for perfect attendance at mass.

There was a mirror behind the choir. Its function, Clete knew from painful experience, was to permit the choir director, the organist, and the priest to observe which of the choirboys was at that moment offending the dignity of the House of God and taking that first step down the slippery path to hell.

From where he was sitting, it reflected the rows of chairs just behind his.

Reflected there, her mother beside her, sat the Virgin Princess, a black lace shawl modestly covering her head.

Just before he came to understand that she was mouthing something to him—meaning she could obviously see his reflection, too—he was enjoying an erotic fantasy in which the Virgin Princess was wearing her loosely woven shawl and nothing else.

She is obviously paying no more attention to the Cardinal Archbishop than I am, and as obviously staring directly at me as I am staring directly at her. So what the hell is she saying with those exaggerated motions of those soft beautiful lips?

“I love you"... ?

Oh, shit, Cletus, you're letting your imagination run wild. She wouldn't do that. You have given her no reason to believe that you consider her anything but a child. It is absolutely absurd to imagine that when she— twice— rubbed her breasts against you, it was anything but innocent. So what else could her lips be saying:

It sure looks like “I love you.”

And Jesus H. Christ, even if it is— and it goddamned sure looks like it— a relationship with that girl is idiotic.

So what do I do?

Obviously, I purposefully misunderstand what she's saying.

Clete just finished giving the Virgin Princess a happy, platonic, absolutely innocent "And how are you, Little Girl?" smile and wave of the hand when everybody around him suddenly stood up.

Preceded by the Cardinal Archbishop, the casket was carried from its place in front of the altar down the aisle and out of the church, trailed by the family members and the dignitaries of church and state.

Then the people in the first chairs followed, which meant that Clete proceeded down the aisle before the Mallin family did. As he passed the Virgin Princess, she smiled at him with those goddamned fall-into-them eyes, then pursed her lips in a kiss.

Oh, shit!

Outside, the German Ambassador expressed the profound sympathy of the German F?hrer und Volk over the tragic price paid by this heroic son of Argentina in the noble war against godless communism.

Behind him, Clete saw Peter, holding a pillow.

What the hell is that? Oh, yeah. The posthumous decoration.

A German colonel stepped to the casket, read the citation, then turned to Peter and took a decoration from the pillow and pinned it to the Argentinean flag that was draped cockeyed across the casket.

He and Peter then rendered the Nazi salute.

Fuck you, Peter.

What the hell is that decoration they just gave Cousin Jorge for what amounts to gross stupidity?

It looks just like the one Peter is wearing. And the one Peter is wearing is a no-bullshit medal— I pulled that out of him during the Christmas Eve armistice. It ranks right up there with the Navy Cross, maybe even the Medal of Honor.

And Cousin Jorge gets it because he got killed flying an artillery spotter he wasn't supposed to be flying in the first place?

Bullshit!

Peter and the German colonel did an about-face and marched back behind the German Ambassador. Six large troopers of the Husares de Pueyrredon picked up the casket, and the procession started off again.

Clete watched them go, exhaled audibly, and said softly, "A Dios, Cousin Jorge. Vaya con Dios." And then turned and walked in the opposite direction.

I don't have to watch the end of this. And I certainly don't want to go back to the house and face Uncle Humberto 's sad eyes again. Or the Virgin Princess. . . . Did she really just tell me she loves me?

I will find the Buick and drive back to the house.

And write a message that will be the sort of thing the skipper of a U.S. Navy destroyer might accept as genuine and that will convince Colonel Graham that letting me have a TBF is the only way I can take out theReine de la Mer.

[FOUR]

4730 Avenida Libertador

Buenos Aires

1420 19 December 1942

Clete entered the house via the kitchen, after parking the car in the basement garage.

He was a little surprised that Se?ora Pellano did not show up in the basement to silently chide him for opening the garage door himself, until he remembered that she was at the Big House. He was surprised again that none of the maids appeared in the kitchen while he prepared a wine cooler with two trays of ice from the refrigerator, then stuffed it with bottles of beer.

But one did appear as he was trying without much success to open the sliding elevator door with his elbow. His hands were occupied with the wine cooler and the necks of two additional bottles of beer he was taking upstairs now so he wouldn't have to come back for them later.

She slid the door open for him.

"Gracias," he said. "And could you please fix me a sandwich? Ham and cheese and tomato? Something like that?"

"S?, Se?or Cletus," she said, wrestling the wine cooler away from him. "Se?or, there are two norteamericanos waiting for you in the library."

"Who are they? Did you get their names?"

“No, Se?or Cletus,” she said, as if this caused her great sorrow.

When he pushed open the door to the library, Second Lieutenant Anthony J. Pelosi and Staff Sergeant David G. Ettinger, both neatly dressed in seersucker suits, quickly rose to their feet.

"Good afternoon, Sir," Tony said formally.

"Tony. David. To what do I owe the honor? Can I offer you a beer?"

"No, thank you, Sir," Tony said, and then, "Clete, I met Mr. Nestor."

"How did that happen?"

"Dave brought him to the apartment and introduced him."

"You're talking about Mr. Nestor of the Bank of Boston?"

"I know he's the OSS Station Chief," Tony said.

"He told you that?" Clete asked, looking at Ettinger for confirmation. Ettinger nodded, just perceptibly.

"And he also gave a line of bullshit that you have proved yourself... What did he say, Dave?"

"Unsuitable," Ettinger furnished.

"Unsuitablefor the mission, and that he is now relying on me to carry it out. Real bullshit speech. Like in the movie where Pat O'Brien played Knute Rockne, and whatsisname, Ronald Reagan, played the football player." He stopped, then looked at Clete. "What's going on, Lieutenant?" Tony asked.

"I found the Reine de la Mer," Clete said. "That's the German replenishment ship."

"So did Ettinger," Tony said. "He told me on the way over here."

Clete looked at Ettinger.

"I finally found one of the Jewish refugees with some balls," Ettinger explained. "He told me that an agent of the Hamburg-Amerika Line contacted his firm—he works for a ship chandler— and asked them to furnish an extraordinary quantity of meat, fresh and frozen, plus other foodstuffs and supplies, for delivery by lighter to the Reine de la Mer in Samborombon Bay, where she is at anchor with 'mechanical difficulties.' The name matched the list. I figured this had to be the ship."

"It is," Clete said. "She's anchored twenty miles offshore in Samboromb?n Bay."

"How did you find her?" Tony asked.

"I went looking for her in my father's airplane."

"So what's this all about?" Tony asked. "If we know where it is, why don't we just go sink the sonofabitch?"

"This isn't the movies, Tony, and I'm not John Wayne, and neither are you two," Clete said.

"Well," Tony said. "Maybe Dave isn't John Wayne, but I always thought that I..."

"Tony," Clete said, smiling, "I got a good look at the ship. Not only is she twenty miles or so offshore, but she's equipped with searchlights and machine guns, and probably with twenty-millimeter Bofors autoloading cannon. There is no way to get near her. Or none that I can think of."

"A small boat, at night?" Ettinger suggested.

"You can hear the sound of a small boat's engine a long way off from a ship at anchor, Dave," Clete said. "And they're certainly taking at least routine precautions; I'm sure that they sweep the area with floodlights at night, post lookouts, that sort of thing."

Ettinger shrugged, accepting Clete's arguments.

"I went to see Nestor as soon as I could when I came back," Clete continued.

"You didn't say anything to us," Tony interrupted, and looked at Ettinger for confirmation.

"I didn't have anything to tell you, except that I'd found her. And that could wait until I talked to Nestor, and listened to what he had to say when I told him there was no way we could damage the ship where she lies—not with just twenty-odd pounds of explosive."

"I can do a lot with twenty pounds of explosive," Tony said.

“Presuming you can lay your charges, right? I'm telling you, there is no way to get close enough to that ship to do that."

“What about the airplane you found her with?” Ettinger asked. "Lieutenant, I don't want to sound like I'm questioning your judgment, but I really would like to put that ship out of action."

“The airplane I found her with is my father's Beechcraft stagger-wing. It's a small civilian airplane. I couldn't carry in it more than three or four hundred-pound bombs—if I had three or four hundred-pound bombs—and I don't think I could hit..."

“Then what was Nestor talking about? He said you had some wild idea about torpedoing the Reine de la Mer.”

"What I told Nestor was that if he could get me a TBF from Brazil..."

"A what?" Tony asked.

You don't know what a TBF is either?

"A torpedo bomber. A single-engine Navy airplane with a bomb bay that can handle a torpedo.”

"They have them in Brazil?"

"We're equipping the Brazilian Navy. It seems logical to me that we'd give them TBFs."

"You could sink the ship if you had one?"

Clete nodded. "Yeah. I think the reason they haven't thought of putting out the Reine de la Mer with one is that they don't have the range to reach here from Brazil."

"You're thinking of refueling it where we were in Uruguay?" Tony asked.

Clete nodded and waited for his reaction.

"Where are we going to get the aviation gas for that?"

Damn, I didn't think of that!

"I don't know. But there is aviation gas in Uruguay, and so are the people who loaned us the walkie-talkies we lost. They can get avgas for me."

Tony nodded.

"Nestor didn't say anything about a torpedo bomber," Ettinger said. "Why is that a wild idea?"

"I don't know," Clete said. "He said something like that had already been considered and rejected by the OSS. I told him I wanted to appeal the order up the chain of command to Colonel Graham. I think I can convince Graham that getting me into a TBF would be the best way—hell, the only way that I can see— to put the Reine de la Mer out of action."

"And?" Tony asked.

"He said that was out of the question. I had my orders and I would carry them out. And then I lost my temper, told him I had no intention of committing suicide, and then, I'm sorry to say, I threw him out of the car."

"Lieutenant," Ettinger said carefully, "I can't think of a delicate way to put this.... Did Nestor suggest you were overly concerned with your own skin? Is that why you lost your temper?"

Clete met Ettinger's eyes, then nodded.

"What?" Tony exploded incredulously. "That sonofabitch! You've been in combat. You're an Ace, for Christ's sake, a fucking hero, and he knows that."

"Cowardice is apparently in the eyes of the beholder," Clete said.

Ettinger, recognizing the wordplay, smiled. Tony looked confused.

"Well, fuck him, and his orders," Tony fumed on.

"So what happens now, Lieutenant?" Ettinger asked.

"The only thing I can think of is to keep trying to reach Colonel Graham," Clete said.

"How are you going to do that?" Ettinger asked.

"David, would the Alfred Thomas have a radio capable of communicating with—hell, I don't know—some Navy radio station in Washington? Or with a station that could relay a message to Washington?”

Ettinger shrugged doubtfully, but then nodded and smiled.

"It's possible, Lieutenant," he said. "When Admiral Byrd was down in Antarctica, which isn't far from here relatively speaking, he was unable to communicate with the Navy. But there was a radio ham, an amateur in Cedar Rapids, who could talk to him— I think on the twenty-meter band. The Navy was very embarrassed—I got this story from Mr. Sarnoff at RCA—but they had to swallow their pride and go to this fellow Collins and ask him how he did it. He started a company to build his equipment for the Navy, and it seems logical to assume that the Navy would at least try to equip their vessels in the South Atlantic with such equipment. But I don't understand ..."

"When the destroyer arrives, I'm going aboard. I'll identify myself as a Marine officer and ask her captain to send a message to Colonel Graham."

"And if he doesn't have the right kind of radios, or let you send Colonel Graham a message, then what?" Tony asked.

Clete shrugged. "If you can think of anything else, Tony, I'm wide open to suggestions," Clete said, then turned to Ettinger. "Unless you could set up a radio here?"

Ettinger shook his head no. And then explained: "I don't have the equipment. And I don't think I could find it here. I asked around. Most of their equipment is pretty primitive. And from what I remember about what this fellow Collins used, it required a hell of an antenna. Nothing we could hide; it would attract a good deal of attention. Sorry, Lieutenant."

"It never hurts to ask," Clete said.

"So what do we do now?" Tony asked. "While we're waiting for the destroyer to show up?''

"Try to think of some way to take out an armed merchantman besides using a TBF... or three lonely guys with twenty-odd pounds of explosive," Clete said.

"One thing we absolutely must not do," Ettinger said thoughtfully, "is tell Nestor about this little chat."

"He's the OSS Station Chief," Clete said. "I don't want to put you in the middle of the fight between the two of us."

"I told you before, Clete, that a man can't serve two masters," Ettinger said. "And the oath I swore when I came into the Army was 'to obey the orders of the officers appointed over me.' I don't think Nestor qualifies as an officer, Lieutenant. You do. That's the philosophic argument. What Tony would call the gut reaction is: 'If Lieutenant Frade doesn't trust this man, why should we?' "

"No matter how this turns out, Clete," Tony said, "we're with you. OK? We decided that on the way over here."

Christ, I'm no better than my father. I want to cry.

"Which brings us back to Tony's question," Ettinger said. "What should we do now, Tony and I?"

"Nothing. Unless someone comes to you and tries to order you to commit suicide by trying to take out the Reine de la Mer. This is a direct order, Lieutenant Pelosi: I forbid you to attempt any action against the Reine de la Mer without my specific approval. Clear?"

"Yes, Sir," Tony said.

"If you want to get in touch with me, have David call and say he's from American Express and I have mail there. I'll then meet you at five o'clock the same afternoon. Where?"

"One of the hotel bars," Ettinger said. "That would look coincidental."

"The bar in the Plaza," Tony decided.

"The bar in the Plaza," Clete parroted. "And now get out of here."

Pelosi and Ettinger both offered their hands.

Clete watched them as they walked to the library door.

Pelosi turned at Ettinger's arm, surprising Clete, and then surprised him even more:

"Detail, Ten-hut!" Pelosi barked.

Ettinger came to attention.

Pelosi raised his hand in a crisp salute and held it.

“Permission to return to post, Sir?”

Clete returned the salute.

"Post, Lieutenant Pelosi."

Pelosi brought his saluting hand crisply to his side, then barked, "Haa-bout, Face!" and "Faw-wud, Harch!" and marched out of the library.

Just in time. Otherwise they would have seen the tears running down my cheeks.

[FIVE]

Recoleta Cemetery

Buenos Aires, Argentina

1435 19 December 1942

As he observed the casket of el Capitan Jorge Alejandro Duarte being placed before the altar inside the Duartes' enormous marble tomb, Hauptmann Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein decided that he was honor bound to inform Lieutenant Cletus Howell Frade that an attempt would be made to murder him.

He reached this conclusion by a circuitous route, starting from a moment when he glanced down at the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross around his neck and at the other one on the red velvet pillow.

His first thoughts were unkind: This goddamned fool does not deserve the Knight's Cross. He got himself killed flying an airplane that he was not supposed to be flying in the first place, in a war that wasn't his.

Other thoughts immediately followed: Furthermore, he was probably unqualified to fly the Storch at all. It is a relatively simple, stable aircraft; but like all airplanes, it has its peculiarities. The Storche I've flown have gone from the first faint, barely detectable indication of a low-speed stall condition to a full stall in the time it takes to spit.

Whereupon, the sonofabitch drops through the sky like a stone. Standard stall-recovery procedures work, of course, providing you have several hundred feet of altitude to play with. If not, you encounter the ground in an out-of-control attitude, and with consequent loud crashing noises.

There are two ways to enter a stall condition— in addition to on purpose, which is what the instructor pilot does to you during Transition Training, which it is safe to assume the late Capitan Duarte did not have, the Luftwaffe not being in the habit of teaching Cavalry officers from South American countries to fly its airplanes. An airplane goes into an unplanned stall either because the pilot is stupid enough to allow the airfoils to run out of lift, or because the propeller has stopped turning and pulling the airplane through the air with enough velocity for the airflow over the airfoils to provide sufficient lift. Propellers stop turning usually because the engine has stopped turning. Engines are fairly reliable. They seldom stop turning unless they are broken, as when, for example, they are hit by small-arms fire.

The rule to be drawn from this is that if you are flying a Storch near the ground someplace, you pay particular attention to airspeed and engine RPM, so that if the engine is struck by small-arms fire and shows indications of stopping, you can make a dead-stick landing someplace without stalling.

Capitan Duarte did not do this. The documents accompanying the remains gave the cause of death as “severe trauma to the body caused by sudden deceleration." If he was hit, the documents would have said so.

The late Capitan Duarte crashed the sonofabitch, because he didn't know how to fly the sonofabitch. And he took some poor bastard with him.

He therefore deserves the posthumous award of the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross about as much as Winston S. Churchill does. And awarding it to him is a slap in the face to every pilot who has earned it, including, of course, Hauptmann Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein.

By the time the funeral procession moved from the courtyard outside the Basilica to the cemetery, Peter was having second thoughts:

Wait. Am I being fair to the poor bastard? Is the coffee cup full of brandy I had for breakfast talking? Or the monumental ego of Hauptmann von Wachtstein, fighter pilot extraordinary? Or both?

Bullshit. Clete Frade was contemptuous when he heard they were awarding this clown— his cousin, by the by— the Knight's Cross. Christ, even Oberst Gr?ner was disgusted.

From that point, Peter became less unkind.

On the other hand, even if he was a Hauptmann, Duarte was an inexperienced officer. Inexperienced officers do dumb things, especially before they learn that all the talk of the glory of war is pure bullshit. I did. To save Germany from godless communism, and to bring glory to the Luftwaffe and Der F?hrer, 1 did some pretty goddamn dumb things in Spain myself. And in Poland. And in France.

Cletus told me that he went on his first combat mission determined to personally avenge the humiliation the United States suffered at Pearl Harbor.

“It took about fifteen seconds with a Zero on my tail,” Clete said, "to realize that all I wanted out of the war was Clete Frade's skin in one piece; somebody else was welcome to the glory of avenging Pearl Harbor.”

Clete is an honest man, more honest than I am. I would find it hard to publicly admit a sentiment like that, even though I felt it. And Clete is no coward. He told me that he thought his “chances of getting off Guadalcanal alive ranged from zero to none," but he continued to fly.

El Capit?n Duarte presumably was not a stupid man. He would have learned that lesson probably as quickly as Clete, and surely more quickly than I. It's a pity he killed himself before he acquired a little wisdom.

An officer is honor bound to face whatever hazards his duty requires; not throw his life, or that of his men, away. And that brings me back to Cletus Howell Frade. On one hand, if Clete is in fact an OSS agent, he knows full well the risks he is running coming down here. It may not be spelled out in neat paragraphs in the Geneva Convention, but everyone understands that spies operating in neutral countries get killed by the other side's spies.

In war, the Geneva Convention permits the out-of-hand execution of spies and saboteurs. The Geneva Convention is quite clear on the subject; A soldier found out of uniform behind enemy lines loses the protection afforded a soldier in uniform. He is presumed to be a spy or saboteur.

But Gr?ner— he said so— doesn't know if Clete is an OSS agent or not. And even if he is, he may just be down here to influence his father, or as some kind of high-level message deliverer.

And if Clete is not a spy, where does Gr?ner get the authority to order his execution?

And if Cleteis a spy, what then is Gr?ner? He is certainly not functioning as an officer of a belligerent army, facing his enemy on a battlefield. He is an agent of an intelligence service. In other words, they are both out of uniform; both are outside the protection — and the restrictions— of the Geneva Convention.

But if Gr?ner is caught for ordering the murder of Clete— or of his own hired assassins, for that matter— he will escape prosecution . . . not because his actions are permitted by the Rules of Land Warfare, but because he is carrying a diplomatic passport, which renders him immune to the laws of Argentina.

On the other hand, if Clete killed Gr?ner on his country's orders, and was caught, he would face an Argentine judge on a charge of murder. That's unfair.

Can I thus conclude that since Gr?ner's conduct fails to meet the small print in the Geneva Convention, as well as the German Officer's Code of Honor, I am therefore at liberty to violate the German Officer's Code of Honor and warn Clete?

By stretching the point, yes I can.

But be honest with yourself, Peter. You don't want to warn him because you have put yourself through this exercise in moral philosophy, but because you like him. We thought we -were witty when we told each other we would like to shoot each other down, meanwhile smiling at each other with warm affection. But beneath the warmth there is also the cold truth. If duty requires, we would try to shoot each other down. Yet there would be no smile on the victor's face— his or mine.

I wonder which of us would be good enough to shoot down the other. I have more victories, but until recently, most of my opponents were inexperienced pilots flying inferior machines.

Clete's kills were experienced pilots, flying aircraft at least as good as his own. He's probably a damned good fighter pilot.

I like him, but I would be willing to kill him in the air; as he would me. That would be an honorable death for a warrior. And my conscience, like his, would be untroubled. But for me to stand by silently waiting to hear that his throat has been cut by Gr?ner’s hired assassins would not be honorable, and I could never find an excuse to forgive myself.

A final thought came to him:

My father would understand my decision.

That brings me back to how do I tell him?

He will almost certainly be at the Duarte mansion for the reception after the funeral. I will somehow manage a minute alone with him.

[SIX]

1420 Avenue Alvear

Buenos Aires, Argentina

1605 19 December 1942

"I wondered what happened to you," Se?orita Alicia Carzino-Cormano said, walking up to Hauptmann Freiherr von Wachtstein and smiling at him over the rim of her teacup. "Is this pretty awful for you?"

Peter bowed and clicked his heels, but there was not time for him to reply before Se?orita Isabela Carzino-Cormano walked up to them.

"Se?orita," he said.

Isabela gave him her hand to be kissed, and he kissed it.

"I was deeply moved when the decoration was given to Poor Jorge," Isabela said.

Peter nodded.

"Isn't that decoration the one your government gave our Poor Jorge?" she asked, touching Peter's Knight's Cross.

"Yes, it is,” Peter replied. “I wondered if either of you charming ladies have seen el Teniente Frade?"

"I don't think he's here," Isabela said. "I think his father's disgraceful behavior embarrassed him and he left."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Isabela!" Alicia protested.

"Of course," Isabela said. "You are too much of a gentleman to have noticed him."

"Noticed him doing what?"

"Weeping in the church, like a child. And, of course, quite drunk."

"I understand he was quite close to el Capitan Duarte," Peter said.

And holds himself responsible for the poor bastard's death.

"If Cletus is not here, then he's probably at the Guest House," Alicia volunteered.

If I can get to a telephone, I can call him.

"Se?orita, do you happen to know where I could find a telephone?”

"Finding the telephone is easy," she said. "There are two lines here. But if you intend to make a call..."

She inclined her head. Peter saw a group of people near a telephone set in an alcove in the wall. A gentleman was speaking excitedly into it, and he was oblivious to the dirty looks of the others waiting for it.

"I was thinking of calling a friend," Alicia said. "But it was no use, so I gave up."

"Se?orita, I am staying at the Alvear Palace. My call is important. Official business. Might I suggest that you walk down there with me and make your call from one of the telephones in the lobby?"

Inspiration! I don't know where that idea came from, but it was divinely inspired. I can walk out of here with her— If I can get rid of the older sister, that would not be a bad idea, in any case— which will satisfy Gr?ner's curiosity about what happened to me. And I can telephone Clete from my room.

I don't have his goddamned number! How the hell do I get the number?

"In Argentina, Capitan, young ladies of a certain position do not go to a gentleman's hotel," Isabela said.

Shit!

"Se?orita, I am a stranger to your country. No offense was intended."

"And none should have been taken," Alicia said. "If you need to make a telephone call from the hotel, I'll be happy to walk there with you. It would be nice to leave here anyway."

"You are very gracious."

And you have marvelous eyes. I wonder why I never noticed that before.

"Se?orita, what are the customs of Argentina? May a stranger to your country telephone a young lady of a certain class and ask her to take dinner with him?"

"If the stranger is a gentleman, and you certainly are," Alicia said, "and they have been properly introduced, and we have, in the presence of the young lady's mother, then it is acceptable."

"Wonderful! And might I presume to avail myself of this acceptable custom in the next day or two?"

"You may call, and I will see if I am free."

"You can't tell me that now?”

"You may call," Alicia teased, "and I will see if I am free."

"I will adjust my schedule to yours," Peter said. I will, as a matter of fact, now that the subject has come up, do everything necessary, including standing on my head, to see that fantastic hair undone and spread out on my pillow. “ But for now, Se?orita, may I accept your gracious offer to walk to the hotel with me, so that I can use the telephone."

"You may not care about your reputation, Alicia," Isabela said. "But I do. I can't let you go to the Alvear alone with el Capitan von Wachtstein."

"How do you propose to stop me?" Alicia said. "Wrestle me to the ground?"

She has a spark too. I like that.

"Perhaps," Isabela said, "under the circumstances—I would have to ask Mother—we could escort an honored guest of our country to the Alvear."

"I'llask Mother," Alicia said firmly, and turned to Peter. "You will wait for me?"

"With my heart beating frantically in anticipation of your return."

He watched her move across the foyer. The curve of her hips is magnificent too, and she has a delightful walk. When she disappeared behind a door, he turned to Isabela. "And will you excuse me a moment, Se?orita?"

"Certainly," Isabela said.

And with a little bit of luck, you won't be here when I come back.

He walked quickly across the foyer toward a corridor.

One of the servants surely knows the number of the Guest House. I just hope this corridor leads me to the kitchen.

He was in luck in the kitchen, which he hoped would turn out to be an omen: The first person to notice him there was the housekeeper from the Guest House.

"May I help you, mi Capitan?" Se?ora Pellano asked, smiling as she walked up to him.

"I was wondering if you could give me the telephone number of the Guest House, Se?ora?"

"Is there anything I can do for you there, mi Capit?n? I'm afraid the telephones here are all tied up. And in just a few minutes I will be returning to the house on Libertador myself. I would be happy..."

“Thank you, no, Se?ora. If you would just give me the number, please, Se?ora."

"I will write it down for you," Se?ora Pellano said.

As he came back into the foyer, Oberst Gr?ner was waiting for him.

"I was about to organize a search-and-rescue party for you, von Wachtstein," Gr?ner said. "What were you doing in the kitchen?"

"Looking for someone, Herr Oberst."

"For whom?"

Peter gestured across the foyer to where the Carzino-Cormano sisters were standing.

"For them. Or at least for the younger one. They come in pairs down here, I have just learned."

"With a little bit of skill, I'm told, they can be separated,"

Gr?ner said with a smile. "Which answers my second question for you."

"Which was, Herr Oberst?"

"If you would like to come by my quarters for a light supper with myself and Frau Gr?ner."

"Herr Oberst is most kind."

"There is always something for you to eat at my quarters, Peter," Gr?ner said. "But that fraulein is, I would judge, a rare opportunity. Good luck!"

"Thank you, Herr Oberst, for your understanding."

He bowed and clicked his heels and walked away, toward Isabela and Alicia Carzino-Cormano.

A little gemiitlich family gathering, Herr Oberst? A little Apfelstrudel mit Schlagobers, and a little glass of schnapps, while you await word that your thugs have murdered a very decent human being? Fuck you, Herr Oberst. Willi would understand what I'm doing.

"Mother said it's all right if both of us go," Alicia reported.

"How very gracious of you to join us, Se?orita Isabela," Peter said.

Shit!

[SEVEN]

Suite 701

The Alvear Palace Hotel

Buenos Aires

1705 19 December 1942

The odds are that my telephone is not tapped,Peter von Wachtstein thought as he waited for the hotel operator to connect him with the Frade Guest House. What reason would Gr?ner — or anyone else— have to tap it?

"Hola?" Cletus's voice came on the line.

Not this phone line, buthis! Gr?ner has a man — Comandante Habanzo, or something like that— in Argentine Internal Security. And Gr?ner has him thinking that Clete is an American agent, which means he almost certainly will have tapped Clete's line. And if Gr?ner's man hears about this conversation, then Gr?ner will hear about it!

Shit!

"Is that Lieutenant Frade?"

It's Peter. What the hell does he want?

“Former LieutenantFrade, Hauptmann von Wachtstein. What can I do for you?''

"I am taking tea with two ladies, Teniente," Peter said. "The sisters Carzino-Cormano. At the Alvear Plaza. I thought you might care to join us."

He's drunk. What the hell is he doing with the Carzino-Cormano girls?

"The invitation is most gracious, mi Capitan, but just between us fighter pilots, Isabela Carzino-Cormano cannot be numbered among my legion of female admirers. In English we would say that my presence would piss on your parade. I'll pass, thank you, and in the morning you will be most grateful that I did."

"I would like to impose on your well-known good nature, and ask that you reconsider."

What the hell is going on? Oh, shit. He wants me to get El Bitcho off his hands; he has carnal desires for Alicia.

"Peter, I don't think you can separate them."

"Hope springs eternal in the human breast."

"What if someone sees us together, Peter? I don't think that would look wise to that boss of yours."

"We are in a neutral country. I will simply be acting as an officer and a gentleman, asking you to join us when you happen to walk in and pass our table. We're in the lobby restaurant. You know it?"

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes. I hope you know what you're doing."

"So do I, Cletus."

[EIGHT]

As soon as he was out of the garage, Clete stopped the Buick and put the top down. His uncle Jim spent a good deal of time during Clete's last year at Tulane listing the many inconveniences of owning and driving a convertible. But you could sum up his entire list under one heading: the top. The mechanism was delicate, he told Clete fifty times; and once it was out of alignment it was almost impossible to repair. That meant the roof would leak, and that meant the floor pan would rust out. And it meant that the leather upholstery would rot, or else get stiff and crack.

And if the top was wet, and you put it down before it dried, it would shrink. So when you tried to put it up, the mechanism would not be up to the strain of stretching it and would pull itself out of alignment. Whereupon the roof would leak, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

"Only idiots own convertibles," Uncle Jim said. "Why anybody smart enough to graduate from college would even think of wanting one, I'll never know."

That lecture came the day Uncle Jim told him to get off his lazy ass and help Martha weed the tulips by the driveway. When he got there, he found the Buick Roadmaster convertible with a large yellow bow tied to the bull's-eye hood ornament.

Clete thought of Uncle Jim every time he put the roof up or down. Now he thought of Uncle Jim and the Virgin Princess. On the one hand, she was a kid who wanted a ride in the convertible. On the other hand, she was a perfectly gorgeous woman who mouthed "I love you" to him in the Basilica of Our Lady of Pilar. And pursed her lips at him as he walked out.

What the hell am I going to do about her?

A man was standing under a tree fifty yards from the Guest House, studiously looking the other way. Twenty yards farther down Avenida Libertador, the momentary glow as he took a drag on his cigarette revealed another man sitting at the wheel of a small Mercedes sedan parked with its lights out.

If those two guys are not cops— what do they call them, “Internal Security"?— watching me, then I'm the Commandant of the Marine Corps.

I will do nothing about the Virgin Princess, except ignore her like she has hoof-and-mouth disease. As long as Internal Security is interested in me, I have to stay away from her. I certainly can't let them get interested in her.

Jesus H. Christ, she was so beautiful in the church!

When the top was down, he turned up Avenida Libertador toward the two watchers. When he was parallel with the one under the tree, he blew "Shave and a Haircut Two Bits" on the Buick's loud horn, waved cheerfully, and called out, "Buenas noches, Se?or!"

Then, impulsively, he floored the accelerator and roared down Avenida Libertador. In the rearview mirror, he saw the parking lights of the Mercedes come on, and the man under the tree running toward it.

"Earn your money, fellows," he said aloud.

[NINE]

Alicia Carzino-Cormano was delighted to see Clete walking toward their table in the lobby restaurant of the Alvear Palace. Her sister was not.

"Well, what a pleasant coincidence," Clete said. "Alicia. Isabela. Mi Capitan."

"Teniente," Peter said, standing up, bowing, and clicking his heels. "Perhaps you would care to join us?"

"I would hate to intrude."

"Nonsense," Peter said. "I insist."

"Well, if you're sure it will be no imposition," Clete said, and pulled up a chair.

He met Alicia's eyes as he sat down and then winked at her.

She smiled back.

"You really should be at the Duartes'," Isabela said.

"Why?" Clete asked simply.

“Jorge was your cousin. It was unseemly of you not to be there with the family."

"Isabela, I never met the man. I didn't even know I had a Cousin Jorge until a couple of weeks ago."

"If you had been there, your father might not have gotten so drunk."

"Isabela!" Alicia protested.

"Well, he is," Isabela said. "Disgustingly drunk. Weeping drunk. Telling everyone who'll listen it's his fault that Jorge is dead. Making a spectacle of himself. Humiliating Mother."

"My father," Clete said, coldly angry, "buried his nephew today. He loved him very much. Maybe that's why he got drunk."

"He had no right to make a spectacle of himself. To humiliate my mother. Everyone important in Argentina was there."

Clete stared hard at her, then stood up and looked down at Peter. "I had the feeling I shouldn't have come here."

"Oh, Clete, you're not leaving. Please don't leave!" Alicia said.

"Alicia, it's always a pleasure to see you," he said, and smiled at her. Then he extended a hand to Peter. "Sorry, mi Capitan," he said.

"Please," Alicia pleaded. "Isabela, say you're sorry!" Clete nodded at Peter and started down the corridor toward the lobby. As he reached the center of the lobby, Peter caught up

with him and touched his arm.

"Cletus, my friend, listen carefully to me. An attempt will be made on your life, probably tonight."

"What?" Clete asked incredulously.

"Don't go back to the Guest House tonight. Better yet, go to your father's estancia."

Clete looked into Peter's eyes.

"Jesus Christ! You're serious."

"On my word of honor."

Peter touched Clete's arm, then turned and walked back toward the restaurant in the corridor.

Chapter Seventeen

[ONE]

Bureau of Internal Security

Ministry of Defense

Edificio Libertador

Avenida Paseo Colon

Buenos Aires

2230 19 December 1942

Comandante Habanzo delivered the preliminary visual and communications surveillance reports ten minutes late, at 2210 hours. While he leafed through the five-inch-tall stack of papers, el Teniente Coronel Bernardo Martin kept Habanzo standing in front of his desk.

He wondered if he was doing this because Habanzo was late, or because he simply did not like the man. He decided it was the latter. He had often warned his agents that it was far better to turn in a report late than to turn it in inaccurate—but obviously not often enough, to judge by the quality of the visual surveillance reports in front of him.

The question then changed to why he disliked his deputy. First of all, obviously, because Habanzo was stupid. Stupid people did not belong in internal security. How Habanzo wound up there was one of the great mysteries of life. For a long time, he simply assumed that he never completely trusted the information Habanzo gave him because the man was so devastatingly stupid. But now vague, uncomfortable tickles in the back of his mind were suggesting other reasons as well.

Could Habanzo be taking small gifts—or large ones, for that matter—from some interested party or other? Could he be passing items of interest to them?

Could the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos, for example, have him on their payroll? The answer came swiftly: Not likely. Habanzo's limited mental abilities would be immediately apparent to the G.O.U. And they would be afraid of him, too; for they would see him as the loose cannon that he is. He was perfectly capable of having a sudden attack of conscience and confessing, for instance. Or of selling out to a higher bidder.

On the other hand, in the counterintelligence business, one was expected to consider the unlikely—even the absurdly unlikely— as a possibility.

The communications surveillance preliminary reports were typewritten. Almost all of the wiretappers came from Army and Navy Signals, where they'd been radio operators. Radio operators were trained to sit before a typewriter and almost subconsciously transcribe Morse Code signals. Now they sat before a typewriter in a basement somewhere, or in an office off the Main Telephone Frame Room in the Ministry of Communications, and pecked out a transcript of someone's telephone calls. Aside from minor corrections, and the elimination of abbreviations, their final reports would not be much different from what Martin had in front of him.

The visual surveillance preliminary reports were something else: They were handwritten, compiled from notes discreetly taken on site. And predictably, the syntax in these reports was often highly imaginative. More important, they were liberally sprinkled with question marks. This was done in the interest of fairness, so that El Coronel A's words would not become a matter of official record when the agent was not absolutely positive that it was El Coronel A who spoke them, or that these were his exact words. The idea was that questionable items would be verified in the final reports: that it was not El Coronel A, but in fact El Coronel B, and that he said he was not going to Cordoba, rather than that he was going to Cordoba.

By the time the preliminary reports were finalized, about ninety-five percent of the information verified was no longer of any interest whatever. It was a terrible system. But—as Winston Churchill said about democracy—el Teniente Coronel Martin could not think of a better one.

Nothing in the reports before him was especially interesting. That was not surprising. Just about all of the members of the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos attended el Capitan Duarte's funeral, but they were all far too intelligent to reveal anything worth paying attention to anywhere they might be overheard.

And though el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade solaced the loss of his nephew with a liter or so of Johnnie Walker, this did not yield useful information ... unless irreverent remarks about the funeral ceremony could be considered useful.

Visual surveillance of young Frade was a little more interesting. He did not follow the casket to Recoleta Cemetery, but instead returned to the Frade Guest House on Avenida Libertador, where two American men were waiting for him.

One of them, Pelosi, Anthony J., was ostensibly an oil-industry technical expert who came to Argentina with young Frade. The other, Ettinger, David, was a newly arrived employee of the Banco de Boston.

If one accepted the theory that young Frade was an OSS agent .. . and Habanzo is strongly convinced of this; I wonder why . . . then Ettinger would likely be the third member of a three-man team. But on the other hand, none of these three look like men any intelligence agency in its right mind would send anywhere. Which, of course, might be precisely what the OSS hopes someone like me will think.

Martin would have liked very much to know exactly what they talked about, but that was out of the question. At the same time, Martin was sure that his decision not to install listening devices in the house was correct. Tapping a telephone was relatively simple, and difficult to detect. Listening devices were the opposite, difficult to install and easy to detect. They were also very expensive and hard to come by. He had a budget to consider. If el Coronel Frade or his son came across a listening device—and they more than likely would—they would simply smash it. And a good deal of money, time, and effort would go down the toilet. All a listening device would accomplish would be to remind Frade and his son that they were under surveillance.

There was one anomaly in the reports, which of course Habanzo's summaries offered little to explain: Shortly after young Frade met with the two other Americans, he returned to the Duarte mansion. On the way there, he stopped for a time at the lobby restaurant in the Alvear Palace Hotel. There he encountered the young German Luftwaffe officer and the two Carzino-Cormano girls.

Habanzo did not have a man on the young German officer, pleading a shortage of available agents. And "technical difficulties" created a ten-minute loss of phone coverage at the Guest House—which meant the man tapping the Guest House line had gone either to relieve himself or to have a little snack. During that time there could possibly have been a telephone call in connection with the meeting between young Frade and the German.

According to the visual agent's report, young Frade suddenly left the Frade Guest House garage and then drove at "a high rate of speed” to the Alvear Palace. By the time the agent caught up with him, Frade was in a confrontation with the older of the Carzino-Cormano girls, Isabela. This was followed by an apparent confrontation with the young German officer, as Frade "walked angrily" out of the hotel.

Since it was reasonable to presume that the young German officer was not involved with young Frade's mission for the OSS (if indeed young Frade was actually working for the OSS), it seemed reasonably safe to presume that the confrontation had something to do with the Carzino-Cormano girl. Isabela was a beautiful young woman, and both the German and the American could easily be romantically interested in her.

Thus, a likely scenario: Young Frade slipped away from the funeral and the post-funeral reception for a meeting with his men, then telephoned the Duarte mansion (during the period of "technical difficulties" with the telephone surveillance), somehow managed to get through, and was informed that the Se?orita had left with the German officer.

Thirty-two incoming calls came to the Duarte mansion during the afternoon; four of them asked for Se?orita Isabela Carzino-Cormano.

Masculine ego outraged, he went looking for them in one of the very few public places where a young woman of her position could be seen, found her with the German, expressed his displeasure, and "walked angrily" out of the hotel.

He next went to the Duarte mansion and stayed there for several hours, presumably helping Se?ora Carzino-Cormano deal with his father, who was by then very deeply in his cups.

"And where, Habanzo, is young Frade now?"

"At the Guest House, mi Coronel."

"You're sure of that?"

"S?, mi Coronel."

"And the agents on duty are prepared to deal with the situation if he suddenly erupts again from the garage and drives away at a high rate of speed? They will not, to rephrase the question, lose him again?"

"No, mi Coronel."

"And may we expect further 'technical difficulties' with communications surveillance of the Guest House line?"

"I have been assured, mi Coronel, that the equipment is now working perfectly. But on the other hand, mi Coronel..."

"I don't wish to hear about 'on the other hand,' Habanzo."

"No, mi Coronel."

"I want enough people on the communications surveillance, and enough visual people watching the house, so that tomorrow morning I will know if there were telephone calls to him, and what was said. And I want to know who comes to visit him."

"S?, mi Coronel."

"And if he leaves the Guest House by car—even at a 'high rate of speed'—I want to know where he goes, who he sees, and with a little bit of luck, what he says."

“S?, mi Coronel."

"That will be all, Habanzo. I will see you here, with tonight's preliminary reports, at nine in the morning. And if there is any unforeseen problem, I expect you to telephone me at my home."

“S?, mi Coronel. I understand."

"I devoutly hope so, Habanzo."

[TWO]

4730 Avenida Libertador

Buenos Aires

0015 20 December 1942

"I wonder," Clete Howell said aloud as he pulled off the avenue onto the driveway and stopped, "if I can get this big sonofabitch through that narrow gate."

He was driving his father's Horche, with Se?ora Pellano sitting next to him. He had the Horche because he took his father home from the Duartes’ in it, and he needed a way back to the Guest House.

An hour earlier, though he seemed to have passed out for the evening in a leather armchair in the Duartes' upstairs sitting room, El Coronel suddenly stood up and announced that he was tired and going home.

"You are not going to drive," Se?ora Carzino-Cormano said.

"You're drunk." "Don't be absurd."

"Dad, you've had a couple," Clete said.

"He's had a liter!" Se?ora Carzino-Cormano said.

"I have never been drunk in my life."

"It is a pity, Jorge," Se?ora Carzino-Cormano said, "that Cletus is such a bad driver. Otherwise he could drive you home in your car."

"Cletus, you silly woman, is a splendid driver. I myself accompanied him while he was at the wheel of the Horche. He drives it nearly as well as I do." He turned to Clete. "It is settled. You will drive me home in the Horche. Then you may use the Horche as long as you like." He turned back to Se?ora Carzino-Cormano: "Are you satisfied, you silly woman?"

"Perfectly, my darling. You are always such a reasonable man."

Not without difficulty, El Coronel was installed in the front seat by Clete, Enrico, and Se?ora Pellano. And he was asleep by the time they reached the big house on Avenida Coronel Diaz. With Se?ora Pellano preceding them to open doors, Enrico and Clete half-carried, half-dragged him up the stairs to his bedroom, undressed him, and put him to bed. As soon as he was on his back, he started to snore.

"Will he be all right?" Clete asked Enrico.

"I will stay with him, mi Teniente, until Se?ora Carzino-Cormano arrives."

Clete considered waiting for Claudia, then decided to hell with it, he would take the Horche and worry about the Buick in the morning.

"Se?or Clete?" Se?ora Pellano asked.

"I was wondering if I can get this car through the gate."

"I will guide you," she said. She stepped out of the car, opened the gate, and with great seriousness (which made him smile), used hand signals to guide him into the basement garage.

"Can I make you a little something to eat, Se?or Clete?" she asked as they entered the house through the kitchen. "Perhaps a cup of coffee?"

"No, thank you, Se?ora Pellano. I'm beat. I'm going to bed."

"You're sure?"

"I am positive."

"Se?or Clete, I have something to say," she said hesitantly.

"Say it."

"Today was a sad occasion. But it was not the burial of Jorge that made your father drink."

"Excuse me?"

"It was happiness. You are here and alive, and your war is over. That is why your father drank. He is so relieved, so happy about that."

She touched his face.

"¿Con su permiso?" she asked, and before he could reply, she stood on her toes and kissed his cheek.

Without thinking, he put his arms around her and hugged her.

It was hotter than hell in Uncle Guillermo's playroom. No one had raised the vertical blinds to take advantage of the breezes coming off the Rio de la Plata. Se?ora Pellano would have taken care of that; but she wasn't here.

By the time he raised them and opened the windows to the balcony, Clete was sweat-soaked. He stripped down to his undershorts and boots, then stepped onto the balcony to catch the breeze.

Who's going to see me, anyhow? And if somebody does, so

what?

He relaxed for a moment on one of the six comfortable, cushioned chairs around the table, wiping the sweat from his brow as soon as he was seated. Then he stood up and went to the ice chest. It should certainly be stocked with cold beer, he thought with pleasure.

The beer was floating around in tepid water.

When the cat's away, the mice will play,he thought. If Se?ora Pellano had not gone to the Duartes' to help out at the funeral, there would be cold beer in here.

And then the hair on his neck curled.

Jesus Christ, if Peter was serious, I'm one hell of a target for somebody with a rifle over there in the racetrack grandstands!

He quickly returned to the bedroom and stood with his back against the wall. His heart was beating rapidly, and his sweat was now clammy.

Then he told himself he was being foolish.

It's incredible to think that someone is in the grandstands with a rifle. If there were, they would have taken a shot at me when I drove up in the Horche.

And besides, those Argentine FBI guys— the Internal Security agents— are outside on the street.

But then he remembered that he didn't see a car on the street when he drove up, and no South American Humphrey Bogart in a trench coat standing under the tree.

I probably lost them when I took the Old Man's Horche from Uncle Humberto's. They are standing around watching for the Buick.

That made him smile. And with the smile, he lost the feeling of terror. He pushed himself off the wall.

You are a melodramatic asshole, Clete Frade!

But, shit, Peter sounded serious. Better safe than sorry.

He walked quickly around the room, turning off the lights. Then he carefully lowered the shutters.

He turned the lights on again.

As 1 learned as a Boy Scout, “Be Prepared!”

He went to the wardrobe where he was hiding the Argentine copy of the Colt Model 1911 .45 pistol and took it out. He removed the clip, emptied and reloaded it, dry-fired the pistol, satisfied himself that it was functioning properly, and then reinserted the clip and worked the action, chambering a round.

And then he felt a little absurd, again.

"Why don't I do this right?" he asked himself aloud. "If this is going to be a replay of the Gunfight at the OK Corral, why not do it with a Colt six-shooter?"

He went to the desk and took out the felt-lined walnut box containing the old Hog Leg, the Colt Army .44-40 revolver that his grandfather carried while commanding the Husares de Pueyrredon.

You'd be proud of me, Grandpa, sitting here with your Hog-Leg about to defend myself against the Argentine equivalent of the Apaches.

Jesus Christ, it's hot in here with those goddamned blinds closed!

He stood up and walked to the rear of the apartment, where there was a second balcony behind the elevator shaft and the steep stairway. It was barely wide enough for two simple wooden chairs with leather seats and backs. And it offered a far-from-charming view of the service entrances of other houses—and to judge from the smell of it, the Buenos Aires version of a privy.

But it was in the open, and there was a small breeze. He started to sit down, but decided a warm beer was better than no beer, and returned to Uncle Guillermo's playroom.

Feeling more than a little sheepish, he turned off the lights, opened one of the vertical blinds, and crept onto the balcony. He took two beers from the ice chest, then crept back inside. He lowered the blind again, then started back toward the other balcony.

The .45 automatic was on the desk, beside the .44-40 Hog Leg.

I should put that away before Se?ora Pellano comes in here with my breakfast and sees it.

Ah, to hell with it. I'll take it with me and put it away before I go to bed.

He went to the rear balcony and laid the pistol on the floor of the balcony. Then he settled himself as comfortably as he could— sitting in one of the chairs, resting his booted feet on the other— and opened one of the beers.

Warm beer is better than no beer at all.

While he sipped the beer, thoughts of the Virgin Princess passed pleasantly across his mind.

Can I tell her I love her?

Why the hell not, she already said that to me . . . probably.

And she looked at me out of those beautiful eyes and pursed her lips in a kiss....

Jesus Christ, I'd give my left nut to put my arms around her and kiss her!

He heard the sound of feet on the stone stairs.

What the hell is that?

A cat or something? Rats?

What the hell is it?

He carefully lowered his booted feet to the floor and stood up. He had left the door to the rear balcony slightly ajar. He approached it, put his hand on the knob, and started to open it. Then he changed his mind, dropped to his knees, and felt around the floor until his fingers touched the Argentine .45.

He went back to the door. He heard feet on the stone stairs again, then his heart jumped as he realized someone was coming up the stairs.

No. Someone is already on the top floor; and somebody else is coming up the stairs. And it goddamned sure isn't Se?ora Pellano. Then who the hell is it?

He smelled a man.

A man who hasn't had a bath in a long time. Smells like an infantry Marine from the 'Canal.

The second man walked toward Uncle Guillermo's playroom.

What the hell do I do now?

Clete eased the door open. Walking on his tiptoes, he left the balcony and walked toward the playroom.

It was absolutely dark inside.

He found the light switch, closed his eyes, and turned the lights on.

He opened his eyes. In the time it took them to adjust to the sudden glare, he saw two men.

What the hell is he doing next to my bed?

The second man was closer, shielding his eyes. He held a long, curved knife. When he saw Clete, he brought the arm holding the knife up across his chest, so he could slash at Clete when he moved in.

The man next to Clete's bed turned—he had an even larger knife—and assumed a crouching position.

Clete glanced at the closer man, in time to see him start to rush at him.

Did I chamber a round in this thing?

The .45 kicked in his hand, and then again and again. The noise was deafening.

The man rushing him staggered, with a look of surprise on his face. He fell to the ground. The back of his head was a horrible, bloody mess, shattered like a watermelon.

Where the hell did I hit him? In the mouth? I had to; there's no other mark on his face.

The other man was now rushing at him with his knife held high over his shoulders.

The .45 bucked again and again and again and again. The man rushing him started to fall.

Clete pulled the trigger again. The pistol didn't fire. He checked it. The slide was locked in the rear position. He had emptied the magazine.

The man he had just hit was now screaming in agony, holding his right leg with both hands.

Jesus Christ, when Se?ora Pellano hears all this noise, she'll be terrified!

Se?ora Pellano! How did these bastards get past her?

He looked at the man screaming in pain. The way his leg was bent, it was clearly broken. Blood covered the man's hands.

I shot at him four times and only hit him once, in the lower leg?

He walked to him, kicked his knife across the room, then went to the desk. He picked up a loaded .45 magazine, ejected the empty one in the pistol, loaded the fresh one, and let the slide go forward.

He went to the stairs and started down them.

There were no lights.

He went down carefully, rubbing his back against the wall, desperately hoping he wouldn't fall.

He reached the first floor and found the handle to the kitchen door.

He raised the pistol and pushed the door open. The kitchen, too, was dark. He felt around for the switch, found it, and snapped on the lights.

Se?ora Pellano, in a black bathrobe, was sitting at the kitchen table. Her eyes were open and her head was thrown back.

Her throat had been cut. Through the gaping wound he could see bone and her slashed throat. Blood soaked her bathrobe and dripped onto the floor.

"You miserable sonsofbitches!" Clete said, his voice breaking.

He ran back up the stairs to Uncle Guillermo's playroom. Halfway up, he could hear the man screaming again.

"For the love of the Blessed Virgin, please help me!"

He reached the playroom. The man had crawled to the bathroom, where he had pulled a towel from the rack and was attempting to make a tourniquet with it.

He looked at Clete.

"Please, Se?or, for the love of God, help me!"

Clete raised the pistol and shot him in his good leg. And then, when the man looked at him in surprise and terror, he shot him again, aiming between his eyes. His aim was a little off; he hit him in the center of his forehead.

[THREE]

4730 Avenida Libertador

Buenos Aires

0115 20 December 1942

El Teniente Coronel Bernardo Martin made an illegal U-turn in the middle of Avenida Libertador and pulled up behind one of the five Polic?a Federal police cars parked in front of the Frade Guest House.

His action attracted the attention of two uniformed Polic?a Federal officers—the one assigned to make sure that traffic continued to flow along Avenida Libertador, and the one assigned to make sure that no unauthorized persons entered the scene of the crime.

Both greeted him as he left his car.

"Yo soy el Coronel Martin, del Servicio de Seguridad del Interior," he said. Though he was out of uniform—he was wearing only the shirt he had worn that day and a pair of casual trousers— he spoke with such authority that one of the policemen saluted and the other begged his pardon for stopping him.

He entered the foyer of the Guest House and found el Com-andante Habanzo in animated conversation with several Polic?a Federal officers—two uniformed senior officers, one a capit?n, the other a teniente, and two plainclothes detectives, most probably from the Homicide Bureau.

Habanzo looked enormously relieved to see him.

"Mi Coronel," he said.

Interesting that he is here,Mart?n thought as Habanzo briefly described the carnage at the Guest House. Is this a manifestation of his devotion to duty, inspired by our little chat earlier? Or is there another reason?

"You are?" the Capitan asked, not at all friendly, when Habanzo finished.

"Mi jefe, el Coronel Mart?n," Habanzo introduced him.

"¿Credenciales?"

Christ! They are in my jacket pocket.

"Capitan," Mart?n said. "You have two choices. You may accept the word of el Comandante Habanzo, whose credentials I presume you have seen, that I am who I say I am ..."

"Credenciales, por favor."

".. .or we will all stand here while I telephone my office and have an agent dispatched to my home to pick up my credentials. While we are waiting, I will telephone my friend el Coronel Savia-Gonzalez, wake him from a sound sleep, and tell him that one of his capit?ns is interfering with Internal Security."

"With respect, mi Coronel," the Capitan said. "We have three murders here. Murder is the responsibility of my office."

“What we have here, according to el Comandante Habanzo, is three bodies. If my investigation indicates that there were in fact three murders, and that these murders have no connection with Internal Security, then I will happily turn over the investigation to the Polic?a Federal."

He locked eyes with the Capitan, who after a moment backed down.

"S?, mi Coronel."

"Where is the American?" Mart?n asked.

"In there, mi Coronel," Habanzo said, pointing to a closed door, before which stood a uniformed Polic?a Federal. "It is the library."

“Has he been interrogated?''

"No, mi Coronel. He refuses to answer any questions."

"I have placed him under arrest," the Capitan said.

"No, you haven't," Martin said. "Be good enough, Capit?n, to accompany el Comandante and me on a preliminary survey of the crime scene."

"There are two," Habanzo said. "The kitchen, and the apartment on the upper floor."

"We will begin with the kitchen," Martin said. "Where is it?"

"Through that door, mi Coronel."

Martin's stomach nearly turned when he saw the body sitting at the kitchen table. There was already the sickly sweet smell of blood, and flies.

"Get a towel, or a sheet or something, and cover the body."

"Photographs have not been taken," the Capitan protested.

"If I decide photographs are in order, the sheet can be removed," Martin said, and went to the doors leading outside from the kitchen to examine them for marks of forcible entry. There were none.

Which means nothing. People will remove dead bolts and chains to open doors to complete strangers.

He turned from the door to the basement.

"Habanzo, have you examined the door from the street to the garage, and the front d6or, for signs of forcible entry?"

"1 have," the Capitan answered for him. "Or rather, one of the Homicide Bureau investigators has," he corrected himself. "There were none."

"Thank you," Martin said. "How do we reach the—you said 'upper-floor apartment'?"

"There is a stairway and an elevator, mi Coronel," Habanzo said.

"We will use the elevator," Martin said. "It may be necessary to seek evidence on the stairway. I don't think robbers would use the elevator; they make noise." He turned to the Capitan: "To judge from the position of the woman's body, I would say that she was sitting there when her throat was cut; that she was not moved there. Would you agree?"

The Capit?n nodded. "Which suggests she was taken by surprise," he said. "Which in turn suggests she knew the people who murdered her."

"Possibly," Martin agreed. "Where is the elevator?"

The smell of blood in the apartment was even stronger than in the kitchen. And there were more flies.

Martin examined both bodies, then the trail of blood leading to the bathroom, and the towel used as a tourniquet. The tiles surrounding the bathtub were shattered, as well as the tub itself, which sat inside the tile base.

He returned to the bedroom and saw the Colt single-action revolver on the desk. A holster for a .45 automatic and an empty clip lay on the table. A bowl for pencils was on the desk. Martin picked up a pencil, hooked the trigger guard of the Colt revolver, and sniffed at the barrel. It had not been fired.

"Other weapons?" he asked.

"There is a .45 automatic, mi Coronel," Habanzo said. "It has been fired. It is in my possession."

"Where did you find it?"

"When the young Norteamericano opened the door to me, he had it in his hand. He gave it to me."

"A stolen Army pistol," the Capit?n said.

"Not necessarily," Martin said. "This house is owned by el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade. The pistol may be his. It is conceivable that he loaned it to his son for protection."

"That is illegal."

"You tell el Coronel that, Capit?n," Martin said.

He looked around the room again.

"I now wish to speak to the Norteamericano," he said. "Here. Habanzo, will you bring him up?"

"You wish to talk to him here, in the scene of the murders?" the Capitan asked.

"It sometimes makes people uneasy to be brought to the scene of the crime," Martin said. "Uneasy people often say more than they wish. Habanzo, just put him on the elevator. I'd like to speak to him alone."

"I'd prefer to be here, mi Coronel, when you speak with the suspect," the Capitan said.

"First of all, he is not a suspect. Secondly, he has refused to answer your questions. Perhaps he will answer mine."

"I respectfully protest, mi Coronel."

Martin shrugged.

"And when you have put the Norteamericano on the elevator, Habanzo, please telephone to el Coronel Savia-Gonzalez, apologize for waking him at this house, and tell him that I consider it very important, in a matter of Internal Security, that he come here immediately."

“S?, mi Coronel."

"Thank you, Comandante," Martin said.

He had a second thought.

"Where is the .45 automatic, did you say?"

"In my possession," Habanzo said.

"Can you give it to the Norteamericano and have him bring it up here?"

Habanzo's face registered surprise.

"Presumably you unloaded it?" Martin asked.

"Yes, mi Coronel."

"Then I don't think he will try to hold me at gunpoint, do you?"

"His fingerprints will be all over it!" the Capitan protested.

"Since el Comandante Habanzo has told us the Norteamericano was carrying the pistol when he opened the door to him, his fingerprints are already all over it," Martin said, with sarcastic patience. "Please have him bring the pistol."

“S?, mi Coronel."

When Cletus Howell Frade stepped off the elevator, Martin was somewhat shocked at his appearance. He was naked, except for a pair of bloodstained white boxer shorts and cowboy boots. His face, chest, and legs were bloodstained, and there were finger marks where he had tried to wipe them. And he was carrying the .45 automatic by lopping a finger through the trigger guard.

"Teniente Frade, I am el Teniente Coronel Martin of Internal Security. We have met. Do you remember that?"

Clete nodded. He handed the pistol to Martin.

"This is the weapon you used to do that?" Martin asked, nodding toward the two bodies.

Clete was silent.

"We must talk seriously and quickly," Martin said. "Let me begin by saying I know you are an intelligence officer of the OSS. I am presuming that you are a very good one, or otherwise your government would not have sent you to Argentina."

Clete met his eyes but did not reply.

That was a shot in the dark, Teniente Frade. And, while I am not very good at judging reactions by watching people's eyes and other body signals, I'm not all that bad, either. I would wager three-to-one now that you are an OSS agent.

"I like to think that I am also a competent intelligence officer. A good intelligence officer does not choose sides. He simply gathers information and passes it to his superiors for their decisions. That luxury is no longer available to me. Because of who you are, I must either choose to offend your father... which may prove very costly to me in the future, I'm sure you know what I mean ... or I must ally myself with him. I have decided to ally myself with your father."

Clete said nothing.

"You have no response?"

"Could I go in the bathroom and wash myself?" Clete asked.

"Not just yet," Martin said. "What I want from you now is for you to tell me what happened here tonight."

"Mi Coronel, I think I would prefer to wait until my father can find me a lawyer."

"You don't have that luxury," Martin said. "We need a credible story, and we need it before the Chief of the Polic?a Federal arrives. He's on his way. Just tell me what happened. We're alone, and you can deny anything you tell me now later."

Clete said nothing.

"I'm sure this doesn't frighten you, but I think I should tell you that unless we can come up with a credible story for el Coronel Savia-Gonzalez, he will insist that you be taken to police headquarters for interrogation. They won't kill you, but they will make you very uncomfortable, and it may be days before even your father can get you released."

What the hell have I got to lose?

"I was at the home of my uncle, Humberto Valdez Duarte, following the funeral of my cousin. Later, I drove my father home, then returned here with Se?ora Pellano. I came up to my apartment. The blinds had not been raised, and it was very hot in here. I took a beer and went out onto the servants' balcony on the rear. I heard noises, came in here to investigate, and found two men, armed with knives. They attacked me, so I shot them. I went downstairs and found Se?ora Pellano with her throat cut. There was a pounding at the door, and I opened it. A man who said he was Comandante Habbabo ..."

"Habanzo," Martin corrected him.

"... was standing there with a gun. I gave him the automatic. He tried to question me. I refused to answer until I had a lawyer, and we argued about that awhile, until the police came. I was then locked in the library and was there until just now."

"Do you know the men whom you shot?"

Clete shook his head no.

“Do you have any idea why they wanted to kill you?''

"No."

“Where did you get that stolen .45 automatic pistol. Is it your father's?"

Clete was silent.

"All right. Now I will tell you what I believe happened," Martin said. "You returned from your uncle's home, and did not raise the blinds because you thought there might be an attempt on your life. You believed this because you earlier met the German, el Capitan von Wachtstein, at the Alvear Palace Hotel. For reasons I cannot imagine, he warned you that the Germans would try to have you killed. That also explains why you went out on the servants' balcony with a pistol.”

“When the attempt was made, you killed one of the men and wounded the other. You went looking for Se?ora Pellano, found her with her throat cut in the kitchen, lost your professional detachment, and returned here and shot the other man, who had by then dragged himself into the bathroom. The bullets ricocheted off the tile of the bathtub, which explains the blood on your body. And the human flesh, which I think is brain tissue." Clete said nothing.

"Killing the one and wounding the other was self-defense. Coming back here and killing the wounded man was murder... unless, should the matter reach trial, your lawyer pleads a crime of passion, based on your close personal affection for Se?ora Pellano."

"Those bastards didn't have to kill her," Clete heard himself saying. "She never hurt anybody in her life."

"I'm surprised to hear you say that," Martin said. "Of course they had to kill her. It was at no cost to them. They were going to kill you, and they can only hang you once for murder. Killing her removed a potential witness against them."

"You're a cold-blooded bastard, aren't you?"

“I am beginning to suspect that I have more experience in these matters than you do," Martin said. "Professional judgment does not make me cold-blooded."

Clete exhaled audibly.

"This is the story we will tell," Martin said. "On your return from the Duarte mansion, you came to your apartment. You were surprised by armed robbers. You managed to put your hands on the old Colt and killed them both with it. Since the six-shooter was empty, you picked up the robbers' gun, the automatic, went downstairs, and found Se?ora Pellano murdered in the kitchen. At that point, Comandante Habanzo knocked at the door. You let him in and gave him the robbers' gun."

"There's a couple of large holes in that story," Clete said. "For one thing, the Colt has not been fired. And what about the automatic?"

"Anything else?"

"There's a trail of blood on the floor, leading to the bathroom."

"That robber crawled in there during the gunfight," Martin said. "Where he threatened you with the .45. So you killed him with the old revolver."

"The old revolver has not been fired."

Martin ignored him.

"You are more seriously injured than you think you are," he said. "You will require immediate emergency medical treatment. I am going to summon an ambulance from the Military Hospital, which is nearby. You will be treated and placed under protective custody. I doubt if the Polic?a Federal can gain entrance to you in the hospital, but if they somehow manage to—I really don't know how cooperative el Coronel Savia-Gonzalez will be in this; he is not an admirer of your father—you will refuse to answer any of their questions without a lawyer."

"The .44-40 hasn't been fired," Clete repeated. "The bullets in the bodies are .45 ACP, not .44-40."

"Your professionalism, Teniente, is returning," Martin said approvingly. He went to the desk and picked up both pistols. He went into the bathroom and pressed the .45 against the right hand of the man with the bullet hole in his forehead, then stood up. He took the Colt .44-40 revolver, fired two cartridges into the body, then went to the body of the man in the bedroom and fired two cartridges into his body. Finally he walked to the desk and fired two cartridges into the wall, one next to the bathroom door, the other through one of the closed blinds.

Then he laid both pistols back on the table.

"The revolver has less recoil than the automatic," he observed calmly. "I would have thought the reverse."

A few seconds later, puffing from the exertion of running up the stairs, Comandante Habanzo rushed into the room with a .32 ACP Colt automatic in his hand.

"What are you doing with that?" Martin asked.

"I heard shots."

"You heard a car backfiring," Martin said. "Habanzo, do you remember offhand the number of the Military Hospital?"

"No, mi Coronel."

"Presumably, you have it written down somewhere?"

“S?, mi Coronel," Habanzo said, more than a little awkwardly stuffing his small automatic back into its shoulder holster and then producing a notebook.

[FOUR]

Room 305

Dr. Cosine Argerich Military Hospital

Calle Luis Maria Campos

Buenos Aires

0205 20 December 1942

Siren screaming, the ambulance, a 1937 Ford station wagon, pulled up to the emergency entrance of the hospital. The driver and his assistant jumped out, walked quickly to the rear, opened the doors, and pulled out the stretcher holding First Lieutenant Cletus Howell Frade, USMCR, under a thick wool blanket.

He raised his head. A gurney was being hastily wheeled to the station wagon under the supervision of a very large and stern-faced nurse. He was moved, none too gently, from the stretcher onto the gurney. The wool blanket from the ambulance was jerked off and replaced by a thinner cotton cover.

The gurney was then wheeled into the hospital, now accompanied by a man in a business suit, who made little effort to hide the .45 automatic he carried, riding high on his hip.

The gurney was rolled onto an elevator. It rose (three floors, Clete guessed) and stopped. It was then rolled down a corridor and into an operating room, which made Clete more than a little nervous.

He was transferred to an operating table. Its cold stainless steel was cool against his back and buttocks. A short, unpleasant-looking, mustachioed doctor in a white jacket bent over him, pried his eyelids apart, and shined a small flashlight in his eyes.

"I'm all right, Doctor," Clete said.

The doctor ignored him. He made a sweeping gesture with his hands, and the nurse snatched the thin hospital blanket away and then pulled off his boxer shorts.

Jesus Christ!

As the nurse wrapped a blood-pressure collar around his arm, the doctor applied a stethoscope to his chest and then his throat. She gave him a sharp shove so he would roll onto his side; and a moment later, he felt the annoying and humiliating insertion of an anal thermometer. He watched as someone dropped his bloody shorts into a stainless-steel tray.

The anal thermometer was finally removed, his temperature announced orally, and then repeated by a woman in hospital whites holding a clipboard.

He was moved back onto his back. His blood-pressure reading was announced orally, repeated by the woman with the clipboard, and then the large nurse inserted a needle in his left arm to draw blood.

That completed, the doctor made another sweeping gesture with his hand. And the nurse, using what looked like a miniature spatula, began scraping his body.

Martin said that was probably brain tissue.

He felt slightly nauseous when she carefully scraped the brain tissue off the first spatula with a second one. The tissue was dropped into a second stainless-steel tray.

He was then given two sponge baths, first with water, then with alcohol. His face, chest, and legs stung uncomfortably. And when he moved his left leg, the large nurse firmly pushed it down against the operating table.

His chest stung, and he put his hand to it. Her hand grabbed his.

"I itch, goddamn it, take your hand off!"

She did not. There was a test of arm strength.

"Let him," the doctor said.

He scratched, and was sorry he did; he felt a sharp pain.

A tray of instruments appeared. The doctor took a scalpel in one hand and a ferocious-looking set of tweezers in the other. Starting at Clete's forehead, he began to remove tiny pieces of tile, dropping each piece into still another stainless-steel tray.

There is a moral in this,Clete thought, wincing at the pain: When you shoot someone in the forehead, be sure of your backstop.

He smiled at his own wit. The doctor smiled, very insincerely, back at him.

Jesus Christ, you must be losing your marbles. You killed a man, and that's nothing to smile about. Not only killed him, shot him in cold blood. Well, maybe not cold blood. You were pretty goddamned pissed after seeing what they did to Se?ora Pellano. But the bottom line is you killed a defenseless man.

He closed his eyes and kept them closed until he sensed the doctor stand up after he finished working his way down his body with the scalpel and tweezers.

The large nurse then appeared with a stainless-steel bowl and what looked like a small paintbrush. She carefully wiped each small wound with an alcohol towel—it stung painfully. And then she painted each wound with the purple substance that was in the stainless-steel bowl—it stung even more painfully.

The doctor looked down at him once more.

"Thank you, Doctor," Clete said.

The doctor ignored him and disappeared.

The large nurse nudged him again, and he slid off the operating table back onto the gurney. The thin cotton blanket was once more draped over him, and the gurney was wheeled out of the operating room and down the corridor.

The man with the barely concealed .45 marched alongside.

"Wait!" he ordered curtly.

"I have inspected the room, Sir," another man said.

The man with the .45 grunted, and went into a room to conduct his own inspection. He came back out, carrying a telephone.

"You inspected the room, did you?"

The second man looked sheepish. The man with the .45 shook his head at him in tolerant disgust, then motioned for the gurney attendant to push Clete into the room.

"In the bed, please, Se?or," the man with the .45 said.

"I have to urinate," Clete said.

"Over there," the man said.

Clete walked naked to a small room equipped with a toilet, a bidet, and a shower.

When he returned, the room was empty.

It was also hot. The heavy vertical shutters had been lowered. When he went to them, he saw that the lowering belt had been padlocked. It could not now be moved.

Shit!

He went to the door. It was locked. He banged on it, and finally it was opened. There were two men, obviously armed, in the corridor. The man with the .45 who had been in the operating room was not there.

"I want the window open," Clete said. "It's as hot as a furnace in there."

"Sorry, Se?or," the taller of the two men replied. "That is prohibited."

"By who?"

The man shrugged.

Clete went back inside, and as he walked to the bed, heard the door being locked.

He lay down on the bed, put his hands under his head, and started to wonder about what was going to happen next. Then he heard the door being unlocked again. It opened, admitting a hospital attendant who handed him a small gray paper-wrapped package and left. The door was locked again.

Clete opened the package and found it contained a tiny bar of soap, a tiny towel, shaving cream, a razor, toothbrush (no toothpaste), a glass, a hospital gown, and cotton slippers.

"To hell with it," he said aloud. "It's too hot in here to put that on."

He lay down on the bed, and again began to wonder what would happen next.

[FIVE]

Clete woke up suddenly, and with a reflex action, he looked at his Hamilton. It was eight-fifteen in the morning. On the crystal of the chronograph he noticed a small piece of whitish substance, flaked with now darkened blood. The large, unpleasant nurse did not look for brain tissue on his watch.

He left the bed, walked to the washbasin, and carefully scrubbed the watch clean. Then he glanced at himself in the mirror. His face was covered with violet patches—the disinfectant the nurse had painted him with—and so was the rest of his body.

I look like a clown. I wonder what the hell that purple stuff is.

He scrubbed at his face with no success, then tried a shower, which proved equally ineffective.

Maybe alcohol will get it off.

He went back to the bed and put on the hospital gown, then slipped his feet into the slippers. Another glance at the mirror confirmed his suspicion that his ass was hanging out.

And he was hungry. And thirsty. He banged on the door again, and in a moment it was unlocked and opened. Two strange men were in the corridor, cast from the same mold as the previous two. Though both were standing, now they had chairs. One waved forefinger at him as if he were a small child.

"You must remain in your room."

"I'm hungry and thirsty."

Both men shrugged helplessly.

He closed the door himself, heard it being locked, and then returned to the mirror to examine himself—with mingled shock and amusement. There came the sound of the door being unlocked again.

Breakfast?

The door opened. A little pale, but otherwise showing no signs of passing out drunk eight hours before, el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade entered the room, freshly shaven, perfectly dressed. He was trailed by Enrico, who was carrying a small leather suit case.

"Are you all right?” Clete's father demanded. "You are not seriously injured?"

"I'm pretty sick about what those bastards did to Se?ora Pellano.”

His father nodded.

"I will of course help you, Cletus, any way I can. But the time has come for you to tell me what you are really doing down here."

"I'm here to make sure that Howell Petro—"

"Refuse to answer me, if you must. But don't lie to me again," his father interrupted him.

Clete met his father's eyes. His father nodded, as if he was satisfied that he had gotten through to Clete.

"The Bureau of Internal Security believes you are an agent of the OSS," he said.

"Do they?" Clete said. And then he decided he didn't want to lie to his father anymore. That did not mean telling him everything; but he wouldn't lie about what he told him.

"I'm a serving officer of the U.S. Marine Corps," he said. "I'll tell you that much."

El Coronel Frade nodded again, as if he thought he was making progress.

"And you're here to damage the German ship in Bah?a Samboromb?n?" his father asked.

"If I were, I couldn't tell you that. You're an officer, you know what it is to be under orders."

"Or to try to influence me?" He gave Clete a hard look. "Depending on who I talk to in the BIS, I am offered both possibilities."

"I'd like to influence you," Clete said. "Your neutrality, your alleged neutrality, in this war makes me sick to my stomach."

"Does it indeed?" his father asked, his face tightening.

"You—and the BIS—apparently know all about the Reine de la Mer. You even called it a German ship just now. And you close your eyes to it. If you were really neutral, you'd have done something about it."

"You seem to know a good deal about it yourself," Frade challenged. "You know its name ... very informative."

"If you hadn't closed your eyes to the Germans' replenishing their submarines in your sacred neutral waters, it wouldn't have been necessary for the U.S. government to send people down here to do something about it."

"Has it occurred to you that if the United States government had not sent you down here, Se?ora Pel—what happened to Se?ora Pellano would not have happened?"

Clete felt anger welling up.

"I'm as sorry as you are that Se?ora Pellano was killed. I was goddamned fond of her. She'll be on my conscience, all right. But not because I'm here doing what I was sent here to do, but because I forgot for a moment that the Germans have no qualms about killing innocent people. They kill innocent people by the millions. What's one more?"

"In the First World War, Allied propaganda showed German soldiers bayoneting babies in Belgium. That Allied Declaration, if that's what you're talking about, is the same sort of thing."

"If you believe that, I feel sorry for you." Clete said softly. He was aware that the flash of anger was replaced by a sad resignation, as if their roles were now reversed ... as if he was now the parent talking to the child who would not accept the unpleasant truth.

"International law ..." Colonel Frade began, and stopped.

"I should have protected her," Clete said, his voice calm and sad, "and I didn't. I'm ashamed of that. But I'm not ashamed of coming here to do what I was sent to do. If there's any shame, you should feel it, because Argentina is too stupid or selfish to know or care what this war is all about."

His father's face grew white. It was a moment before he spoke.

"El Almirante de Montoya believes it will be best for you, under the circumstances, to remain here in the hospital for the next few days."

"Who? Admiral who?"

"El Almirante de Montoya is Chief of the Bureau of Internal Security. He has assumed jurisdiction in your case. Fortunately, he and I are friends, because your fate is in his hands."

"And what exactly does that mean?"

"When de Montoya feels it would be safe for you to leave the hospital, you will come to the estancia, until I can arrange to send you safely out of the country."

"I'm not leaving the country," Clete said.

His father met his eyes.

"You have no choice in the matter."

"I'm not finished here. I killed the men who killed Se?ora Pellano," Clete said. "Now I want to get at the people who hired them. The Germans."

"You don't know for a fact that the Germans were behind this."

"Of course it was the Germans," Clete said, less angrily than sadly. "Don't tell me you closed your eyes to that too."

As if he had not heard a word, el Coronel Frade went on: "I have arranged for the release of Se?ora Pellano's body. I will accompany it to the estancia, where she will be buried. De Montoya has agreed to release you from here in time to attend Se?ora Pellano's funeral. That will provide a satisfactory reason for you to move to the estancia. You will stay there until I can make arrangements for you to leave the country. In the meantime, Enrico will stay with you."

"What? What for?"

"If one attempt to kill you was made, there will probably be another."

"But there are guards in the corridor."

"I know where Enrico's loyalties lie," Frade said simply. "Enrico will stay with you.

"You have disappointed me, Cletus," Frade went on carefully. "A good woman is dead on account of you. And you have lied to me. The estancia is large. You and I will only have to see a little of one another."

"I want very much to go to Se?ora Pellano's funeral, Dad," Clete said. "But I don't think it would be a good idea for me to stay at the estancia."

El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade met his son's eyes, then turned on his heel and walked out of the room. After he passed through the door, Enrico locked it.

Enrico turned, met Clete's eyes for a moment, and then went to the bed, where he unzipped the suitcase and took from it what seemed to be a Browning twelve-bore self-loading shotgun. He assembled it, then loaded it with five Winchester 00-buck cartridges.

"Browning?" Clete heard himself asking. "A Browning, or an Argentine copy?"

Enrico didn't reply for a moment, then held the shotgun out to Clete.

"A Remington Model Eleven, mi Teniente," he said.

Clete examined it and handed it back.

"Marianna was very fond of you, mi Teniente," Enrico said. "She was always talking to me about you, like you were her son."

Marianna? Oh. He means Se?ora Pellano. I never knew her first name. And now she's dead, because of my stupidity.

"I was very fond of her. I am ashamed she is dead."

Enrico met his eyes again.

"I have asked the Blessed Virgin to let Marianna know that you avenged her death, so that she may find eternal peace in the company of the angels, knowing you are alive and they are dead.”

"Until just now, I didn't know you and Se?ora Pellano were close," Clete said.

"She was my sister," Enrico said simply. "I will now protect your life, mi Teniente, with my own. But I would also very much like to kill some Germans myself. Do you perhaps have a name? Or names?"

Jesus, he means all of that. If anyone tries to kill me in here, it would have to be over his dead body. And if I gave him the German ambassador's name, he'd kill him. Or die trying.

Clete shook his head no.

"I'll work on this," Enrico said. "Honor demands that I also avenge her death, even if that is against mi Coronel's wishes. I will help you in any way I can, especially if it means I can kill Germans."

And he means that too.

"Thank you, Enrico," Clete said.

I wonder if that means he would let me go, let me escape from my father's protection.

Having said his piece, Enrico went on to immediate, practical matters.

"Mi Teniente, where is the telephone?"

"They took it out," Clete said. And then, curiously: "Who did you want to call?"

"I thought we would have coffee, and perhaps the newspaper, mi Teniente. We will be here a long time.”

"I could use something to eat."

"Bueno, I will take care of everything," Enrico said. He walked to Clete and held out the shotgun. "Mi Teniente is familiar with this shotgun?"

"Yes. I've got a Browning. They're about identical."

"It is loaded, and the safety is off, mi Teniente," Enrico said, and handed the Remington to Clete.

He walked to the door, pounded on it, and left the room. Five minutes later, he was back.

"Coffee and some pastry is on the way," he announced. He walked to the window. "It's locked," Clete said. Enrico looked at him and winked.

"The clowns in the corridor asked where I was going. I told them for breakfast, a telephone, and the key to the window. They told me I could have neither the key to the window lock," he held up a small key, "or a telephone."

He removed the padlock, opened the vertical blind three feet, and then opened the window. He whistled. Moments later, a telephone appeared outside the window; it was hanging on a cord. Enrico hauled it in, untied the cord, then closed the window and the vertical blind.

He plugged the telephone in, picked up the handset, listened for a moment, nodded his head in satisfaction, then unplugged the telephone and put it in the cabinet beside the bed.

"We will keep it there until we need it, mi Teniente," he said. "In case the clowns in the corridor become curious."

"How did you do that, Enrico?"

"The Suboficial Mayor of the hospital was in the Husares de Pueyrred?n when el Coronel and I were with the regiment. He was injured in a bad fall, and is on limited duty."

"He gave you the telephone?"

“S?, mi Teniente, and he will see that we eat well, from the Sargento's mess."

"When they hear what happened on Avenida Libertador and cannot find me, my two friends will be worried about me. Can I call them, Enrico?"

Enrico met his eyes for a long moment.

He is not going to let me use the phone. All that talk about going against my father's wishes sounded great, but when push comes to shove.. .

"The clowns cannot listen to that line," Enrico said, pointing to the telephone wall plug. "I thought of that. But I think the clowns will be listening to the line of your friends."

"You're probably right."

Probably, shit! Of course he's right.

"It would be better to have them come here. Do you need both of them, or just one?"

“Just one. Could you do that? How would you bring him past the clowns?"

"You do not have suboficiales mayores in your army, mi Teniente?"

"I am a Marine, Sergeant Major, not a soldier. But yes, we have men like you in the Corps. They call them 'gunnys.' It means gunnery sergeant."

"And when your officers have a problem they cannot solve, do they turn to the 'gunnys'?"

"Yes, we do."

"It is the same here. This problem may take some time, but it can be solved. I suggest, mi Teniente, that you write a short note to your friend, telling him to accompany the man who gives him the note. And tell me the address."

Chapter Eighteen

[ONE]

Room 305

Dr. Cosme Argerich Military Hospital

Calle Luis Maria Campos

Buenos Aires

1745 20 December 1942

Wearing a somewhat soiled, loose-fitting white cotton uniform of the type issued by the Argerich Military Hospital to its maintenance personnel, Second Lieutenant Anthony J. Pelosi, CE, USAR, moved slowly down the third-floor corridor of the hospital. He was holding a large coil of black electric wire, and following a man moving a floor polisher in a slow sweeping motion from side to side.

The man with the floor polisher stopped in front of Room 305 and put a key to the locked door. The door was opened by a large man; he was holding a shotgun in one hand. The muzzle was eighteen inches from Tony's belly. The man motioned for him to enter.

First Lieutenant Cletus H. Frade, USMCR, wearing a light-blue hospital gown, was seated at a small table. Tony could see a pot of coffee on it and the remnants of sandwiches and pastry.

"Jesus, what's that purple shit all over you, Lieutenant?"

"Some kind of antiseptic," Clete said, walking to Tony and shaking his hand. "How did you get past the clowns?"

"I'm holding the cord for the guy with the floor polisher," Tony said. "He said we have ten minutes, and the less time I'm in here, the better."

"That'll be enough. Tony, this is Suboficial Mayor—Sergeant Major—Rodriguez. Enrico, el Teniente Pelosi."

"A sus ?rdenes, mi Teniente."

Tony shook Enrico's hand.

"What the hell happened at your house? When I went by there, the place was surrounded by cops; I couldn't even get near. And when I tried to telephone, I got some guy on the line who was obviously a cop, and he wouldn't tell me shit."

"The Germans sent a couple of guys to kill me; the local mafiosi."

"No shit?"

"They killed Se?ora Pellano," Clete said.

"And then you killed them? With your grandfather's six-shooter?” Tony asked in a combination of admiration and incredulity.

"I thought you didn't know what happened."

Pelosi hoisted the hem of his white jacket and came out with a copy of the Buenos Aires Herald.

"You're on the front page," he said, handing it to him. "I suppose most of the story is bullshit."

ROBBERY ATTEMPT IN BELGRANO

LEAVES HOUSEKEEPER AND

TWO CRIMINALS DEAD

By C. Edward Whaley

Herald Staff Writer

Buenos Aires 20 Dec—An attempted robbery of the residence at 4730 Avenida Libertador just after midnight this morning left the housekeeper, Se?ora Marianna Pellano, 52, and two as yet unidentified criminals dead, according to Colonel Ricardo Savia-Gonzalez, Chief of the Polic?a Federal.

"These criminals," Colonel Savia-Gonzalez told the Herald, "apparently in the belief the residence was not occupied, broke into the house from the rear. Surprised by Se?ora Pellano, they cruelly took her life, then proceeded upstairs.

"There they encountered Se?or Cletus Frade, son of el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade, and attempted to murder him with a pistol it has been determined was stolen from the Argentine Navy.

"Se?or Frade, luckily, was in the process of cleaning an historic military firearm, a Colt revolver once carried by his grandfather, El Coronel Guillermo Alejandro Frade, who carried it while commanding the Husares de Pueyrred?n. Although wounded, he courageously managed to load the revolver and with it dispatched both criminals, killing both instantly.

"He then summoned the police, who upon arrival, dispatched Se?or Frade to a hospital for treatment of his wounds, and began an investigation into the identity of the criminals." The Herald has been unable to obtain any details concerning Mr. Frade's condition, but a police official who did not wish to be identified said that the scene of the shooting was bathed with blood, that "many shots were exchanged," and that Mr. Frade was "extremely lucky to have survived the encounter." The same official said that Mr. Frade, who has been living in the United States, recently returned to Argentina as General Manager of Howell Petroleum, Venezuela, and has been living in the residence temporarily.

"These were obviously brutal, hardened criminals," this official stated. "And it was only God's mercy and Se?or Frade's great personal courage that saved his life. Clearly, if he had been unarmed, he would have suffered the same tragic fate as Se?ora Pellano."

“Everything is bullshit, except that they murdered Se?ora Pellano."

"The guy that came to get me said they cut her throat, practically cut her head off," Tony interrupted.

Clete saw Enrico's face darken.

"Se?ora Pellano was Sergeant Major Rodriguez's sister, Tony," Clete said evenly.

"Jesus! Sorry, Sergeant," Tony said. "I didn't know."

Enrico nodded: It doesn't matter. No offense.

"So who were these guys? I didn't think they were burglars.

Real mafiosi? Italians?"

Clete nodded. "I don't know if they were Italians. But local gangsters. They were sent to kill me. Almost certainly by the Germans. So they knew about me. And if they know about me, they probably know about you. And maybe about David, too."

Tony accepted that without much surprise.

"How do you think they found out?"

"My father was here. He let it out that the BIS know we work for the OSS. There must be somebody in the BIS talking to the Germans."

"And you just got lucky when they came after you?"

"I was warned they were coming. And just in time." That got Tony's attention.

"By who?"

"Tony, I just can't tell you that."

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

Tony considered that a moment, and drew his own conclusion, which obviously pleased him.

"We've got somebody in with the Germans?"

"I didn't say that."

Tony shrugged, signifying Clete didn't have to put it in words, that's what it had to be. "So what happens now?"

"I don't know," Clete said. "My father's going to have me expelled from Argentina. And the destroyer will be here in a couple of days. I'm going to have to leave . .. unless, of course, I can get to use the destroyer's radios and get in touch with Colonel Graham. The best I can hope for is that my father can't have me expelled before the destroyer gets here."

"So what happens to Ettinger and me? What do you want us to do?"

"Nothing. I brought you in here to tell you what happened at the Guest House. And to tell you to watch out for yourselves. But nothing's changed about the orders I gave you. Just sit tight."

"If you say so, Lieutenant," Tony said, not liking it at all.

"Consider it an order, Lieutenant," Clete said, and then had another thought. “And speaking of orders: I told you to stay away from me. So what were you doing at the Guest House?"

Tony looked very embarrassed. "It was a personal matter, forget it."

"I don't want to forget it, Tony. I want to know what was so important you went to the Guest House after I told you to stay away."

Tony looked even more uncomfortable. He looked at Enrico. "Does he speak English?"

"No."

"I got a girl in trouble," Tony blurted.

Jesus Christ, is he serious?

"You did what?"

"I got a girl in trouble."

You certainly didn't waste any time, did you?

And you're really upset about it.

For the girl. This is not “Oh, shit, I knocked up a girl and her father wants me to marry her.”

"Do you mean what I think you mean, Tony?"

Tony looked confused for a moment, then his expression changed to outraged innocence.

"It's nothing like that. Jesus, Clete, she's not that kind of a girl! Christ, I've never even tried to cop a feel."

"Then how is she in trouble?"

"Her boyfriend saw us in El Tigre. Or, really, some sonofabitch saw us in El Tigre, took our picture, and showed it to her boyfriend, and he's a real prick."

"Tony, I don't understand what the hell the problem is. Is the boyfriend coming after you?"

"He's not exactly her boyfriend," Tony said uncomfortably.

What the hell is he talking about?

"What exactly is he?"

"I mean, I don't think she even really likes him. He's sort of, like, supporting her."

Oh, Tony. You poor bastard. You've got yourself hooked by a clever whore who saw what a wholly decent and damned naive kid you are!

"This man is supporting her? Then she's not your girlfriend? You're not in love with her?"

"Of course not. I mean, no, I'm not in love with her..."

Like hell, you aren't. You just don't want to admit it to me. Or maybe even to yourself.

"... and yeah, her boyfriend is, was, supporting her."

"I don't understand, Tony."

"I talked her into going to El Tigre. It's my fault."

"And somebody took a picture of you and showed it to her boyfriend," Clete said. "And he got sore. And dumped this girl, the one you're not in love with, and now she's telling you you're going to have to support her?"

"No," Tony said firmly. "She didn't say anything like that at all. I know what you're thinking, Clete. But she's not playing me for a sucker, Clete! Absolutely not!"

Sorry, but that's exactly what it looks like to me.

"Then what's the problem, Tony?"

"This guy guaranteed a loan for her father—her father owns a restaurant—and now he's going to the bank and telling them to cancel the guarantee. And her father'll have to pay off the loan, and he doesn't have the dough, so they'll take the restaurant. And the house upstairs."

He probably still believes in the tooth fairy!

"How much, Tony?"

"Thirteen grand. Maybe a little more."

Does he really expect me to come up with thirteen thousand dollars?

Yes, he does. He believes in both the tooth fairy and in the universal goodness of man.

"Tony," Clete said, as gently as he could. "Have you thought how this looks to me? I know, you say she's not that kind of a girl, and that you're not in love with her, but it looks to me like she's playing you like a violin."

"Forget I asked," Tony replied, with both anger and hurt in his eyes.

"Tony, have you considered that it's at least a possibility—I mean, this isn't some girl you've known for years. You just met her—that as soon as you give her the money, she says 'Muchas gracias' and goes back to her boyfriend?"

"I told you it's not like that. And she didn't ask me for a dime. I had to pull the story out of her."

Yeah, sure you did. While she looked at you with big, tearful eyes and a few well-timed sobs.

"And anyway, I wasn't going to ask you to give me the fucking money, just help me get it in a hurry down here from my bank in Chicago. I got fifty-three grand in the bank."

"Where'd you get fifty-three thousand dollars?" Clete asked in surprise.

And is the girl you don't love and is absolutely not playing you for a sucker aware you're got fifty-odd thousand dollars?

“Three of it was my college money, and my grandfather left me fifty grand when he died. I figured, since you know people here, you could help me get thirteen grand down here, maybe fifteen, just to be sure."

As sure as Christ made little apples, he's being played for a sucker; but I can't convince him of that.

So what do I tell him?

He stuck with you. Loyalty is loyalty, and it works down as well as up. This guy is on your team. So what you do is try to help him. If you can minimize the damage, fine, but you help him.

"Tony, I'll tell you what I will do. You come up with the facts.

Your girlfriend's name, her father's name, the name of the bank ... all the information you can get out of her. I'll check it out. If it checks out..."

And I'll be goddamned surprised if it does!

"I got it right here," Tony said. He dug into his white hospital uniform trousers and came out with a thick wad of paper.

"You can't keep those ..." Tony said.

Why am I not surprised?

"... because her father needs them back. He's running around trying to get the money from other people, family mostly. I got two grand from Ettinger, it was all he had, and he's come up with about four. So we still need seven."

Ettinger can't afford to lose two thousand dollars. But he couldn't turn Tony down. And you almost did.

Clete quickly went through the documents, more than a little surprised to see that the mortgage, made by the Anglo-Argentine Bank, looked legitimate. He wrote down the pertinent facts, remembering as he did so that Uncle Humberto was a banker and that he could ask the appropriate questions.

"Mi Teniente," Enrico said, frowned, and tapped his wrist-watch.

"Yeah, OK. He's going." He handed the documents back to Pelosi. "No promises, Tony. I'll check it out."

"Thank you," Tony said. "I... Thanks, Clete. I really hated to bother you with this, you being in the deep shit and all."

"It's OK, Tony. If I can help, I'll be glad to."

"Now I feel like a shit," Tony said.

"Why?"

"I lied to you. And Dave."

"About what?"

"I knew what you'd think," Tony said.

"If what, Tony?"

Jesus!

"If I told you I'm in love with her. I am, Clete."

Either it's pure love at first sight, or you're thinking with your dick, one or the other.

Who the hell are you to ridicule him for falling in love at first sight?

"Tony, just make sure that what you feel for this girl is the real thing," Clete said. "We're down here alone ..."

"Yeah. I knew that's what you'd think. But I'm glad I told you anyway."

"You have to get out of here," Clete said.

"Yeah."

"I'll be in touch, through Enrico or one of his friends," Clete said, and put out his hand.

"Thanks, Clete."

"You and Ettinger watch your ass, Tony. These bastards are liable to come after you. They probably will."

"We'll be all right, Lieutenant."

I wonder.

[TWO]

The Office of the Military Attach?

The Embassy of the German Reich

Avenue Cordoba

Buenos Aires, Argentina

0925 21 December 1942

"You wished to see me, Herr Oberst?" Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein asked as he entered Oberst Karl-Heinz Gr?ner’s office.

"The Ambassador wants to see you, Peter," Gr?ner said. "His secretary called here at nine oh two." Gr?ner waited until the young Luftwaffe officer had squirmed uncomfortably for a while, then went on. "I told her you were in the rest room."

"Thank you, Herr Oberst. I regret that I was delayed."

Smiling, Gr?ner held up his hand and stopped him.

"A late, romantic evening, I gather, von Wachtstein?"

"Romance is difficult, Herr Oberst, when the object of your intentions is connected like a Siamese twin to her older sister."

Gr?ner chuckled. "You are an enterprising young man. You'll find a solution."

"Is Ambassador von Lutzenberger waiting for me, Herr Oberst?"

"He wants to see you at 9:40. Not 9:35, not 9:45. 9:40. The Ambassador is a very precise man, von Wachtstein."

Peter looked at his wristwatch.

"We have a few minutes," Gr?ner said, then handed Peter a folded newspaper. Peter saw that it was the Buenos Aires Freie Presse. "Have you seen this, Peter?"

He pointed to a story with the headline “Murder and Robbery in Belgrano."

"Not this story, Herr Oberst. But I saw a similar one in the Herald. The hotel placed one before my door; I read it at breakfast."

" 'The best laid plans of mice and men,' " Gr?ner said. "I think it was a Scotsman who said that."

"I saw young Frade earlier in the evening," Peter said. "He came into the hotel."

"So I understand," Gr?ner said. "It was reported to me that you had angry words."

"He was angry with the lady, Herr Oberst." "And she with him, I understand," Gr?ner said. "I don't suppose we'll ever know what went wrong, except that I violated the adage that one should never underestimate one's enemy. Lieutenant Frade may not be the babe in the woods I took him to be."

"May I ask what happens now?"

"Well, first you see von Lutzenberger. I suspect there may have been a letter for you in the diplomatic pouch. There was a Condor flight this morning."

"Oh, really?"

"He will deliver the standard speech, that you are not free to use the diplomatic messenger service for personal business. That should take about three minutes. He probably has you on his schedule, 'von Wachtstein, nine-forty to nine forty-four.'"

Peter smiled, thinking it was expected of him.

“And when he turns you loose, I thought we would take a look at the advertisements in the Freie Presse and see about finding a suitable apartment for you. Or would that interfere with your romantic life?"

"No, Herr Oberst. Thank you very much," Peter said.

Gr?ner stood up.

"I noticed in the Freie Presse three or four apartments for rent that might be suitable for you. When von Lutzenberger is through with you, I suggest we have my driver take us past all of them. We will then wind up at my quarters, where my wife has her camera prepared to take pictures, to send to Willi. She will even feed us lunch. And afterward, if any of the apartments has taken your fancy, we can have a closer look on our way back here."

"You're very kind, Herr Oberst."

“Nonsense. Your father would do no less for Willi. But now I suggest you go to the Ambassador's office so that you will be there when the second hand on his watch indicates that it's precisely nine-forty."

"Thank you, Herr Oberst."

"Oh, one final thing."

"Yes, Herr Oberst?"

"When young Frade surfaces—Internal Security has him in the military hospital, but he should be out and about in several days— you should telephone to him and express your delight that he came through this terrible event unscathed."

"I don't think I understand, Herr Oberst."

"You know him socially. You are a German officer and a gentleman. This is a neutral country. It would be the correct thing to do. And when Oberstleutnant Martin gets the transcript of the telephone call, it will drive him mad trying to figure out the connection between you two."

"I'll call him, Herr Oberst."

Gr?ner, now delighted with his idea, had an even better one.

"Better yet, invite Lieutenant Frade to lunch at the downtown officers' club. We'll stop in there during the apartment search and obtain a membership for you."

[THREE]

"You wished to see me, Mr. Ambassador?"

"Ah, yes, von Wachtstein," von Lutzenberger said. "I have a letter for you. There was a Condor flight this morning."

The Ambassador rose from his desk and walked to a wall safe concealed behind the official photograph of Adolf Hitler. He worked the combination, pulled the safe open, took an envelope from it, carefully closed it, and then spun the combination dial.

He handed Peter the envelope; it was sealed with green wax, in which was the impression of a signet ring. The letter was from his father. Peter recognized this, however, by the paper of the envelope and not the seal. A box of this stationery was kept in the library at Schloss Wachtstein; it was purchased in London by Peter's grandfather; and it was used up at the rate of one sheet and one envelope per year to announce births, deaths, marriages, and other significant family events to his grandfather's sister (and her descendants). She had married an Englishman and lived in Scotland.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Ambassador," Peter said.

“Read it here, von Wachtstein," the Ambassador ordered softly.

Peter looked at him in surprise.

"That came to me by hand," von Lutzenberger said. "Not in the pouch. I suspect it should not leave this room."

Peter broke the wax seal and opened the envelope.

Schloss Wachtstein

Pommern

Hansel—

I have just learned that you have reached Argentina safely, and thus it is time for this letter.

The most serious violation of the code of honor by which I, and you, and your brothers and so many of the von Wachtsteins before us have tried to live is of course regicide. I want you to know that before I concluded that honor itself demands that I contribute to such a course of action, I considered all of the ramifications, both spiritual and practical; I am at peace with my decision.

A soldier's duty is first to his God, and then to his honor, and then to his country. The Allies in recent weeks have accused the German state of committing atrocities on such a scale as to defy description. I must tell you that information has come to me that has convinced me that the accusations are not only based on fact, but are actually worse than alleged.

The officer corps has failed its duty to Germany, not so much on the field of battle, but in pandering to the Austrian Corporal and his cohorts. In exchange for privilege and “honors” the officer corps, myself included, has closed its eyes to obscene violations of the Rules of Land Warfare, the Code of Honor, and indeed most of God's Ten Commandments. I accept my share of the responsibility for this shameful behavior.

We both know the war is lost. When it is finally over, the Allies will demand a terrible retribution from Germany.

I see it as my duty as a soldier and a German to take whatever action is necessary to hasten the end of the war by the only means now available, eliminating the present head of the government. The soldiers who will die now, in battle, or in Russian prisoner of war camps, will be as much victims of the officer corps' failure to act as the people the Nazis are slaughtering in concentration camps .

I put it to you. Hansel, that your allegiance should be no longer to the Luftwaffe, or the German State, but to Germany, and to the family, and to the people who have lived on our lands for so long.

In this connection, your first duty is to survive the war. Under no circumstances are you to return to Germany for any purpose until the war is over. If you are ordered to return, find now some place where you can hide safely.

Your second duty is to transfer the family funds from Switzerland to Argentina as quickly as possible. You have by now made contact with our friend in Argentina, and he will probably be able to be of help. In any event, make sure the funds are in some safe place. It would be better if they could be wisely invested, but the primary concern is to keep them safe from the Sicherheitsdienst until the war is over.

In the chaos that will occur in Germany after the war, the only hope our people will have, to keep them in their homes, indeed to keep them from starvation, and the only hope there will be for the future of the von Wachtstein family, and the estates, will be the money that I have placed in your care.

I hope, one day, to be able to go with you again to the village for a beer and a sausage. If that is not to be, I have confidence that God in his mercy will allow us to be all together again, your mother and your brothers, and you and I, in a better place.

I have taken great pride in you, Hansel.

Poppa

Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein turned away from the desk of the Ambassador of the German Reich to the Republic of Argentina and cleared his throat; and then, because it was necessary, he took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes and cheeks.

"Excuse me, Mr. Ambassador."

"May I see the letter, please?"

"It is a personal letter, Mr. Ambassador."

"You either trust me or you don't, Freiherr von Wachtstein."

Peter met his eyes for a moment, then handed the letter over. The Ambassador read it.

“Your father is eloquent, as well as a brave and honorable man, von Wachtstein," the Ambassador said, and then added, "Hold it over the wastebasket and burn it."

Peter met his eyes again.

"No, Sir," he said. "I don't wish to burn it."

"If Oberst Gr?ner finds that letter ..."

"He will not find it, Mr. Ambassador."

The Ambassador considered that for a moment, and nodded.

"As to the other matter," he said. "Transferring the funds here from Switzerland is a simple matter of sending a cable. Keeping their presence here unknown, and investing them wisely, is quite another problem."

"I understand."

"How much help do you think your friend Frade will be?" von Lutzenberger asked. "His uncle is General Manager of the Anglo-Argentine Bank."

"I don't think I follow you, Mr. Ambassador."

"You are beginning to frighten me, von Wachtstein, and to annoy me," von Lutzenberger said coldly. "Please don't waste my time by telling me you didn't warn Frade about Gr?ner's idiotic plan to eliminate him. Frade owes you his life. My question is how helpful you think he will be. If that young Duarte fool hadn't gotten himself killed at Stalingrad, the Anglo-Argentine Bank would have been a helpful connection."

"I hadn't thought about..."

"Start thinking, von Wachtstein. Otherwise we'll both be dead."

[FOUR]

Room 305

Dr. Cosme Argerich Military Hospital

Calle Luis Maria Campos

Buenos Aires

0905 22 December 1942

Clete was lying on the bed, reading La Nation and sipping at a cup of coffee, when he heard the locked door being opened. Enrico, whom he thought was sound asleep, was instantly awake, with the Remington in his hands.

El Teniente Coronel Bernardo Martin stepped into the room, carrying a small suitcase. After a moment, Clete recognized it; it was his. Martin looked at Enrico and his ready shotgun with approval.

"Buenos dias, Suboficial Mayor," Martin said dryly, then switched to English. "How are you this morning, Mr. Frade?"

"I'm fine, thank you. A little bored."

"Well, the doctors tell me that you can leave the hospital," Martin said.

What doctors? I haven't seen a doctor since the one who hacked away at me when I got here.

"So I have taken the liberty of bringing you some of your things from the Guest House."

He laid the suitcase on the bed.

"Thank you," Clete said. "You mean, I'm free to go?"

Martin ignored the question. "I hope that you will report to theman from your embassy that you have been well-treated here."

"What man from the embassy?"

"Yourembassy seems extraordinarily concerned with your welfare," Martin said. "As soon as the story of your encounter with the burglars appeared in the Herald, they started making quite a nuisance of themselves, first at the Polic?a Federal, and lately at the Foreign Ministry."

"Is that so?"

"There's a Consular Officer, a man named Spiers, waiting downstairs to see you now. He was told you're being given a final physical examination, which should be over about half past nine. Will that give you time for a shower and a shave? Or shall I have him told you'll be a little longer?"

"You didn't answer my question. Am I free to go?"

"Certainly, now that we are sure you are in the best of health, and the Polic?a Federal have concluded their investigation of the unfortunate incident on Avenida Libertador." "Thank you."

"Thank you for your cooperation," Martin said. "You might be interested to know that the criminals have been identified. Both of them have long criminal records, including a history of armed robbery. The Polic?a Federal will not miss them."

"Thank you again."

"May I make a suggestion?"

"Of course."

"Your Consular Officer might misinterpret Sergeant Major Rodriguez's shotgun. Would you feel comfortable if he put it away? I assure you that adequate protection for you is in place." Clete shrugged his shoulders.

"Here and at your home. The Polic?a Federal are more than a little embarrassed that such a terrible incident could have happened on Avenida Libertador at the home of one of our more prominent citizens. I feel sure that for the next month, at least, the area will be heavily patrolled."

"You think it will take that long for my father to arrange to have me expelled?"

"This is Argentina. Even under these circumstances, any administrative procedure takes a long time." Martin put out his hand.

"While I regret the circumstances, Mr. Frade, it has been a pleasure meeting you. Perhaps we will see one another again in the future."

Clete shook Martin's hand.

"Thank you," he said.

"Take care of yourself, Mr. Frade," Martin said. He smiled at Enrico, offered him his hand, and then left the room. This time there was no sound of a key being turned in the lock.

"Is it permitted to ask what that was all about?" Enrico asked.

"Put the shotgun away, Enrico," Clete said. "I'm about to be visited by an American diplomat, and it would frighten him. After that, we can leave."

Enrico nodded.

"Out of sight," he said. "Not away."

He moved his chair beside the bed, then slipped the shotgun under the sheet.

"I'm going to take a shower and a shave," Clete said. "If someone knocks, let him in."

[FIVE]

"Mr. Frade, I'm H. Ronald Spiers, Vice Consul of the United States here in Buenos Aires."

He was a slightly built, thickly spectacled, somewhat hunch-shouldered man in his late twenties. He was wearing a seersucker suit and carrying a stiff-brimmed straw hat and a briefcase. He gave Clete a calling card.

"How do you do?" Clete asked.

He saw a question in Enrico's eyes and nodded reassuringly at him.

"I'm really sorry it took so long for me to visit you," Spiers said. "Please believe me, we have been trying since the story appeared in the Herald.”

"I appreciate your concern," Clete said.

"Frankly, you're sort of a special case," Spiers said.

"How's that?"

"Senator Brewer sent a cable asking us to keep an eye on you," Spiers said. "And to notify him immediately if you encountered any problems down here."

After a moment Clete remembered Senator Brewer. He was the senior senator from the state of Louisiana. "He is a pompous windbag of incredible stupidity,” Cletus Marcus Howell called him. “ But he's surprisingly useful to me if I have the time to explain in excruciating detail what I want done.”

Just like the Old Man,Clete thought, smiling, having a word with the Senator, telling him to make sure the embassy looks out for me down here.

And then another thought:

I don't think this Spiers guy has any idea what's really going on.

"Well, you can cable the Senator that I'm fine," Clete said. “They have given me the best of treatment, and I have been told that the investigation is over. The people who robbed the house have been identified as known criminals."

"I'm delighted to hear that," Spiers said. "And I'm sure the Ambassador will be."

"I was just about to leave, as a matter of fact."

"Could I drop you off?" Spiers asked. "I have a car and driver."

"I'd appreciate that," Clete said. "Are you sure it's no imposition?"

"Not at all. My pleasure."

Clete turned to Enrico.

"We're leaving," he said in Spanish. "What are you going do about the shotgun?"

"The shotgun?" Spiers asked, visibly surprised.

Shit, he speaks Spanish. I should have thought of that. Diplomats aren't very useful if they can't speak the language.

"Se?or Rodriguez is my father's gamekeeper," Clete continued in Spanish. "We were looking at a shotgun—we're going to my father's estancia this afternoon—and we sort of hid it when we heard you were coming."

"The bird shooting here is supposed to be magnificent," Spiers said. "I myself don't hunt, but I have friends who do."

"You don't hunt?"

"I just can't stand the thought of killing anything," Spiers said.

[SIX]

4730 Avenida Libertador

Buenos Aires

1105 22 December 1942

Two policemen were strolling down the sidewalk in front of the Guest House, and Clete saw a car that was almost certainly an unmarked police car parked farther down the street.

Clete thanked Spiers for the ride, and for his concern, then passed through the gate and up to the door.

A maid he didn't recognize, a middle-aged woman, opened the door and looked at him dubiously.

Se?ora Pellano will never open the door to me again. Shit!

"This is Se?or Frade," Enrico said behind him.

The woman stepped out of the way.

Now that he was here, Clete was sorry he had come.

"I don't think I want to stay here," he said to Enrico. "I think I'll put some clothes in a bag and check into a hotel."

"It is better that you stay here," Enrico said. "I can protect you better, and this is your home, mi Teniente."

"OK," Clete said, deciding he was being a little overemotional.

"Mi Teniente, when do you plan to go to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo? I must see that we have petrol, the air in the tires ..."

Christ, Se?ora Pellano's funeral!

I have to go. If I don't, he won't go with me. And he has the right to be at his sister's funeral.

"Let me put some things in a bag, Enrico. We might as well go now. There's no point in hanging around here."

“S?, mi Teniente."

[SEVEN]

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province

1615 22 December 1942

El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade was sitting on the verandah of the ranch house with Se?ora Carzino-Cormano and her daughters, when Clete drove up in the Horche.

When he saw Clete at the wheel, he quickly stood up and went inside the house.

Se?ora Carzino-Cormano, shaking her head sadly, moved off the porch and up to Clete and kissed his cheek.

"Are you all right?" she asked. "You weren't seriously injured?”

"I'm fine."

"Your father wasn't expecting you. You and he had words?"

"Yes," Clete said simply. "We did. I'm here for Se?ora Pellano's funeral."

"And you stay angry, don't you, like him? Is that why you drove his car here . .. you know how he is about that damned automobile ... to make him angry?"

"My car is at the Duartes', and when I telephoned to ask about it, there was no answer. I had the Old Man's car, so I drove it."

" 'The Old Man'? Is that what you call him? To his face, I hope not."

They smiled at each other.

"Is there a hotel, or somewhere else I can stay?"

"Where? The hotel in Pila is ..." She raised her hands helplessly. "You're determined to go to the funeral?"

"Yes, of course."

"Good for you," she said, and turned to Enrico. "Enrico, put Se?or Cletus's things in my car. He will be staying at my estancia for the night."

"Mi Teniente," Enrico asked uncomfortably, "may I have an hour?"

"I don't understand, Enrico," Claudia said.

"I would like an hour with my family, Se?ora," Enrico said.

"Se?or Cletus is going to my estancia, Enrico. Not you."

"With respect, Se?ora, where el Teniente goes, I go."

"I will speak to el Coronel about that, Enrico. It will be all right with him."

"With respect, Se?ora, this has nothing to do with el Coronel."

She stuck her tongue in her cheek thoughtfully.

"Very well, Enrico," she said. "You go to your family. Take all the time you need. When you are finished, Se?or Cletus will be here on the verandah, and then you can drive him and the Se?oritas to my home."

"Gracias, Se?ora," Enrico said.

"And for the next hour," Claudia said, "the Old Man can sulk in the house while we have a coffee. Or perhaps something stronger, Cletus?"

"Nothing, thank you," he said.

[EIGHT]

Estancia Santa Catharina

Buenos Aires Province

2145 22 December 1942

Clete was startled when he became aware of the human form standing next to him. A female human form, to judge by the perfume.

He was lying on a chaise longue, examining the heavens with a pair of Zeiss 7 X 50 binoculars that he found in his bedroom. The room—actually an apartment—obviously served as the last repository of the personal property of the late Se?or Carzino-Cormano; there were riding boots and a photo album and other things he suspected Claudia was unable to part with, even though her husband was long dead and she was in everything but law now married to his father.

After dinner, a magnificent entire lomo, roasted whole with red sweet peppers, mushrooms, and two magnificent bottles of vino tinto, Clete went to his room and to its chaise longue for a look at the stars.

He sat up. Enrico, the Remington on his lap, was about to allow himself to doze off again, satisfied that the visitor, whom Clete now recognized, posed no threat to Clete.

“I am not disturbing you?” Alicia Carzino-Cormano asked.

"Of course not."

"Is he ... is that, necessary?" Alicia asked, nodding at Enrico and his shotgun.

"He thinks so."

"And do you?"

"I don't know," Clete said. "I am willing to defer to his professional judgment."

"May I ask you a question?"

"As long as it does not involve my love life. I am an officer and a gentleman, and officers and gentlemen do not kiss and tell."

"I heard my mother and your father talking."

"Eavesdropping on Mama and the Old Man? I am shocked, Alicia."

She smiled at him.

"El Coronel said there is no doubt that the Germans were behind what happened at the Guest House."

"I'm sure they were," Clete said.

"Why did they kill Se?ora Pellano?"

"Straight answer, Alicia? Because they are no-good sonsofbitches who are perfectly willing to kill innocent people to get what they want."

"There was a story in La Nation," Alicia said, "which said that the English and the Norteamericanos ... which accuses the Germans of killing thousands of innocent people. You believe that too?"

"Yes, I do," Clete said, now seriously. "I'm afraid it's even worse than that. That they have killed more than thousands. I think they've probably killed millions."

"It is impossible to believe!" she said, and made a strange noise. After a moment he recognized it was a stifled sob. She turned and walked—almost ran—away from him. The sudden motion woke Enrico from his doze. He jumped to his feet with the Remington at the ready.

Suddenly understanding why she was doing that, Clete jumped off the chaise longue and ran after her and caught her arm.

"Listen to me, honey," Clete said. "I don't believe for a minute that Peter von Wachtstein had anything at all to do with killing Se?ora Pellano, or with what they tried to do to me. And I know him well enough to be certain that if he was aware of what was going on in Germany, he would do anything he could to stop it."

She looked up at him. He could smell her breath.

"Is that true?" she asked, just barely audibly.

"Yeah, honey, it's true. Ol' Hans-Peter is an officer and a gentleman and a fighter pilot. We officers and gentlemen and fighter pilots don't do things like that."

Alicia Carzino-Cormano then threw her arms around him, hugged him tightly, put her face on his chest, and said, "Oh, Cletus, thank you very much!"

Then she kissed him square on the lips and ran from the room.

[NINE]

La Capilla de Nuestra Se?ora de los Milagros

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province

1105 23 December 1942

The Chapel of Our Lady of the Miracles seems to be a wholly owned subsidiary of Saints Peter and Paul Ranch,thought First Lieutenant Cletus H. Frade, USMCR, onetime acolyte of Trinity Protestant Episcopal Church, Midland, Texas.

Until he walked into this one, he assumed that a "chapel" was sort of an altar off to the side of the main part of the church. The chapel at Trinity, for example, was in fact a small church within a church used mostly by a small group of the unusually devout for the celebration of sevena.m. Sunday Morning Prayer before they hit the links of the Midland Country Club.

Or once in a while,he thought, remembering two specific incidents, for the quiet, family-members-only marriage of a bride who wanted a church wedding but was reluctant to march down the main aisle to the strains of "Here Comes the Bride" in a white dress which could not entirely conceal the fact that she was about to add to the world's population.

La Capilla de Nuestra Se?ora de los Milagros was a large religious edifice, seating normally maybe three hundred people (it was almost as large as Trinity Episcopal, and a hell of a lot more ornate). Today it held more than that. It came fully equipped with an organ, a choir loft, a cemetery, and a rectory. And two priests in absolutely stunning vestments heavy with golden thread, one a doddering old man who seemed to have trouble staying awake, and the other who looked as if he was ordained last week.

And there were three social classes of worshipers: First, there were two kinds of pews in the church itself. All but the first three rows were simple wooden benches. The first three rows were softly upholstered in red velvet.

These were reserved for important worshipers, which today meant the family of the late Se?ora Marianna Maria Dolores Rodriguez de Pellano, whose beautifully carved solid cedar casket now rested just before the communion rail. And today, at the invitation of Suboficial Mayor Enrico Rodriguez, Cavalry, Argentine Army, Retired, included First Lieutenant Cletus H. Frade, USMCR.

The Old Man, Se?ora Carzino-Cormano, the Carzino-Cormano girls, Uncle Humberto and Aunt Beatrice, and some people Clete did not recognize were seated in the VIP section of La Capilla de Nuestra Se?ora de los Milagros, a wing off the main body of the church, where there were individual prie-dieux and nicely upholstered chairs with arms.

The healthy-looking young priest delivered an angry homily, promising eternal damnation for those who lived by the sword. Clete suspected that the homily was directed mostly at him and Enrico, who had his Remington with him, not at all well-concealed in a poncho.

Just for the record, Padre, I didn't come down here because I wanted to. I didn't go in the goddamned Marine Corps because I get my rocks off shooting people. I would even have obeyed Christ's "turn the other cheek" rule if those two bastards hadn't come at me with knives.

But what about the one I shot in the forehead while he was actually screaming, "Please, Se?or, for the love of God, help me!”?

Martin was right: Thatwas murder, Cletus Frade. You didn't have to kill that sonofabitch. You shouldn't have killed him.

Familiar words from the 1928 Book of Common Prayer came into his mind: “ I have done those things that I ought not to have done, and I have not done those things I ought to have done, and there is no help in me.”

Come to think of it, Cletus, the only thing you have done lately that you ought to have done is to keep your hands off the Virgin Princess. You get a small gold star for that.

His meditation on his own guilt and innocence was interrupted when Enrico nudged him. And then he saw that Enrico had not nudged him, and was in fact completely unaware of him. Enrico was weeping.

More than a little awkwardly, Clete put his arm around him and held him comfortingly.

[TEN]

The Ranch House

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

Near Pila. Buenos Aires Province

1425 23 December 1942

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," Clete called. He was lying on the bed.

El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade entered the room and stared at Clete without speaking.

"Claudia called the Duarte house," Clete said without getting up, "and arranged for my car to be driven to her estancia. In an unusual manifestation of Argentine efficiency, it was actually sent there. So she's having it brought here. I'll be out of here just as soon as it arrives."

"It's here," Frade said.

Clete rose to his feet. "Thank you," he said. "I'll be on my way."

"Do you think we could have a small talk, as officers and gentlemen?"

"We could have a shot at it. What's on your mind?"

"Enrico, leave us, please," Frade ordered.

“Mi Teniente, should I put your bags in the Buick?”

"Please, Enrico. I'll be right out."

Frade waited until Enrico picked up the bags and left the room. Then he checked to make sure the door was closed, and finally turned to Clete.

"You are planning to leave without greeting your aunt Beatrice and your uncle Humberto?"

“Well, I thought I would avoid a—a what?—a possibly awkward situation."

"I see."

"And the truth is, now that I think about it, blood aside, the two of them don't really feel like my aunt and uncle. They're just two nice people I feel sorry for because they lost their son. I just met them; I hardly know them."

"I had trouble with that too," Frade said.

"With what?"

"Realizing, blood aside, that you are really my son. A flesh-and-blood creature ... not a dream."

Clete could think of no reply to make.

"After you arrived yesterday," Frade said, "Enrico came to see me. He told me that honor requires that he leave my service."

"I had nothing to do with that," Clete said.

"Enrico left Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo to enlist in the Army shortly before I was to be commissioned. That way he could complete his training by the time I became an officer, and he could be my batman."

"Your what?"

"My personal servant. Officers in the Corps of Marines do not have servants?"

"No, we don't," Clete said, chuckling. "I thought he was a Suboficial Mayor?"

"He was, of course, much more than a servant. As long as I can remember, back to when we were boys on the estancia, he has been my friend. So I saw to it that he became a soldier, not a servant in uniform. He ultimately became a Suboficial Mayor, and a very good one."

"I understand, I think."

"When I retired from the Army, he retired with me. And when he came to me yesterday and told me he must leave my service, I told him to do what he wished, but that he was never to visit San Pedro y San Pablo again, after today."

"You're a real friend, Dad," Clete said, angrily sarcastic. "I'd hate to think how you treat people you don't like."

His father did not reply, but Clete saw the immense pain in his eyes.

"I'll talk to him, try to patch it up between you," Clete said. "If that's what you want me to do."

"Thank you, but that will be unnecessary," Frade said.

"Your pride, of course, your Argentinean pride, won't permit you to do that, right?"

"I will go to him and beg his pardon. But before that, I wanted to come to you ..."

"You don't need my permission to talk to Enrico."

"... to ask your pardon as well, and to tell you that I will do whatever I can to help you against the Germans."

That's a switch. A one-eighty-degree turn. What brought that about?

"Because of what they did to Se?ora Pellano?"

"Partly, and partly because you are my son and need my help."

I'll be damned,Clete thought as he felt his throat tighten painfully, he means that.

"Before the funeral, I called el Almirante de Montoya, the Chief of the Bureau of Internal Security, and told him that the price of your expulsion from Argentina would be the loss of my friendship," Frade said. "He told me I was a fool—and I have known him since we were at the university—but you will not be expelled."

"Thank you," Clete said.

"You are determined to go through with whatever it is you intend to do to the German ship?"

"I intend to carry out my orders."

Frade shook his head, started to say something, stopped, and then said, "Presumably you have a plan?"

Clete's hesitation was evident.

"You don't know if you can trust me?" his father asked. "Is that it?"

Clete's face gave him his answer.

"No matter what you think of me personally, Cletus, I am a man of honor. Would you take my word as an officer and a gentleman that I am prepared to help you?"

I'm not sure.

But my only other option is the vague hope that the destroyer will have radios capable of communicating with Colonel Graham in the States, and that they will give me access to them.

"I don't have a plan," Clete said. And when he saw his father's face, he added, "Really, I don't. I'm not just saying that."

"But I don't understand."

"Harming the Reine de la Mer is impossible with what they have given me to work with."

"Which is?"

"A radio expert and an explosives expert. And a small quantity of explosives. Even if we could get to the Reine de la Mer—"

"You have explosives?" his father interrupted him. "Where?"

"About twenty pounds, ten kilos. In the Guest House."

"You had explosives. If they were in the Guest House, Martin found them. He's very good at his job, and I'm sure he thoroughly searched the house when you were in the hospital. And if he didn't mention to me that he found them, then he has them. He will be cooperative, but only to a point."

"They're there. I checked. I was at the Guest House before I came here."

"Then I'm wrong. El Coronel Martin closed his eyes."

"No. I'm sure he didn't know what he was looking at. It's a new kind of explosive, called C4. You can mold it like putty. What I have looks like pieces of a wooden crate."

"Apparently, you too are very good at your job."

“There is no way to get close to the Reine de la Mer. She has floodlights, .50-caliber machine guns, and I think a couple of twenty-millimeter automatic cannon. And even if we somehow could get to her and attach the explosives, I don't think we have enough C4 to do real damage."

His father looked thoughtful, as if considering the problem.

In for a penny, in for a pound. I don't have any other options.

"And that isn't the only problem," Clete went on. "When I tried to explain to the OSS man here, my commanding officer, so to speak ..."

"Mr. Nestor, of the Banco de Boston," his father said. "El Coronel Martin told me who he is."

Acknowledging that would be admitting he's right, and I don't want to do that. I guess I don't trust him.

"... when I told him I could see of no way to carry out my orders, I was relieved."

“Relieved?” his father asked, and his face lit up.

"He as much as accused me of cowardice."

"Cowardice?"

"Cowardice."

"But you've already proven your courage. In the war in the Pacific, and at the Guest House."

Clete met his father's eyes and shrugged, then went on:

"The destroyer may have the ability to communicate with the United States. If it does, then I'll try to go aboard. If they will let me use their radio, I'll try to get in touch with the man who sent me down here and give him my side of the story."

"And if that is impossible? I believe the radios of warships are put under a seal when they enter our waters."

"I don't know," Clete said, smiling. "I'm fresh out of clever ideas. I'm determined to have a shot at that damned ship."

His father nodded, as if he had expected that answer. He pursed his lips for a moment, then asked, "Tell me about the destroyer. For one thing, if your government has a destroyer here, and if they are willing to send an OSS team down here ... why doesn't the destroyer sink the Reine de la Mer?'

"I think they don't want to commit an act of war within your waters."

"That's splitting hairs!' Frade said. "What's the difference between you destroying this vessel and one of your warships destroying it?"

"None that I can see," Clete said. "I'm going to make that argument again to Colonel Graham when I get in touch with him. If I can get in touch with him."

"Who is Graham?"

"Colonel Graham. The officer in overall charge of this mission."

"He's here?"

"In Washington. I hope he's in Washington. The last time I saw him, he was on his way to Australia."

"If he's in Washington, why don't you go there?"

"How?"

"The same way you came here. By Pan American. Do you still have your passport? I can arrange for an exit visa."

"I didn't think about the exit visa, but I called Pan American. They told me they give seats only to Americans who have a priority from the U.S. Embassy. Obviously, they're not going to give me one."

"I know the Pan American-Grace General Manager. I can get you a seat."

"I don't think so, Dad."

"I think so. I own ten percent of the shares in Panagra-Argentina. I'm on the board of directors."

"What's Panagra-Argentina?"

"Panagra stands for Pan American-Grace. It's a partnership between Pan American Airways and Grace Shipping. Panagra is in partnership with an Argentine company, Panagra-Argentina, to operate here."

"Jesus, could you?"

"It will take a few days, but it can be done."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because Mr. Trippe and Mr. Grace have told Panagra to give me anything I want. You know who those men are?'' Juan Trippe was President of Pan American Airways, and William R. Grace was President of Grace Shipping Corporation.

Clete nodded. "Sure. But why did they do that?" he asked, confused. "You can throw a lot of business their way?"

His father looked at him for a long moment, and Clete sensed that he was debating telling him something. Then he smiled, just a little sadly.

"I think it would be reasonable to assume that Se?ores Trippe and Grace have considered that a President of Argentina could, as you put it, 'throw a lot of business their way.' "

"My God!" Clete asked incredulously, even as he realized his father was telling the truth, "Are you going to be President of Argentina?"

"That was a strong possibility," el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade said quietly, "before I realized that I must be involved in your affairs."

"Graham didn't tell me that," Clete said thoughtfully, and then anger swept through him, quickly and bitterly. "But he knew. That sonofabitch knew—of course he knew—and didn't tell me. That devious bastard! He sent me down here to get close to you! It had nothing to do with this goddamned ship!"

"That outburst becomes you. I can't tell you how happy I am to see that you were unaware of such things," el Coronel said.

"But I think the ship was an integral part of his plan."

That surprised Clete. It showed on his face.

"I don't understand..."

"Have you considered that it would be in their interest if you had attacked the Reine de la Mer and were killed in the process?"

"Jesus Christ!"

"Even if we had remained estranged," Clete's father went on, "you are my son. If the Germans killed you, my honor as well as my heart would demand revenge. I am an influential Argentinean. I may perhaps even become President."

"Goddamn!"

"They had an officer of the Corps of Marines, who proved his courage in battle..."

"And they almost hoped I would get killed!"

"Almost?" his father said, dryly sarcastic, and then went on,

"... and who could be expected to carry out his orders, regardless of the risk."

"It's hard for me to believe that Graham would be capable of that kind of scheme," Clete thought aloud. "I liked him. He's the sort of man you instinctively trust. The sonofabitch!"

"In war, decent men are often forced to do dishonorable things," Frade said. "What went wrong with his plan was he did not take into account your loyalty to your men. You might be willing to give your life, but you would not sacrifice the lives of your men."

"I thought about flying that goddamned Beechcraft right into the sonofabitch," Clete blurted. "But I didn't think it would be any more effective than the lousy twenty pounds of C4 they gave me."

"I am very glad you reached that decision, Cletus," his father said.

Clete looked at him. Tears were running down his father's cheeks. Their eyes met.

"Would it be a great embarrassment to you if I put my arms around you?" el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade asked.

"No, Sir," Clete said, his voice breaking. He went to his father and they wrapped their arms around each other.

Finally, they broke apart.

"Well," his father said, "at least we know where things stand."

"Do we? I don't know what the hell to do now. Right now, I am having some very unpatriotic thoughts. If the OSS doesn't really give a damn about the Reine de la Mer, why should I?"

His father didn't respond for a long moment, but then said, "Because you have been ordered to destroy it. Your admirable concern for your men doesn't change that. So long as the Reine de la Mer is in the Bah?a Samboromb?n, you are obliged to do your best to destroy it. Honor requires that you do anything you can—short of suicide—to carry out your orders."

"You said you would help?"

"I have a suggestion," Frade said. "I will call el Almirante de Montoya again and tell him that I have changed my mind, and that he should expel you from Argentina."

"What good would that do?"

"And then I will get you a seat on the Pan American flight to Miami. You will go to Washington and tell this Colonel Graham to his face ..."

"Doing that won't—"

"Hear me out."

Clete shrugged.

"You will tell Colonel Graham that I deduced the real reason he assigned this mission to you, and that I had you expelled to save your life. That has the great benefit of being the truth."

"I don't want to be expelled."

"You have no choice in the matter. If you feel that you should, you can tell your Colonel Graham that you are willing to come back secretly to sink the Reine de la Mer —you can be put ashore from a U.S. submarine, or come from Brazil via Uruguay. If you return, you will of course have my assistance."

El Coronel let that sink in for a moment, and then went on.

"You have no options, Cletus. Without my assistance, there is no way you can harm the Reine de la Mer. And if, for example, you try to hide yourself in Argentina, el Almirante would learn of it, and there would be nothing I could do for you. El Coronel Martin's men, believe me, would find you in a matter of days. You would then be imprisoned. Possibly for a long time. There are a number of people in this country who would like to hold that sword at my throat—the sword of my son in an Argentine prison."

"If I came back, you would help me?" Clete asked.

"I give you my word."

"Why?"

"To try to save your life."

Christ, he's got me. I don't have any other option.

"I think it would be best for you to stay here at the estancia, until your expulsion can be arranged, and until I can get you on the Pan American flight to Miami." Clete accepted the inevitable.

"I have to go to Buenos Aires," he said. "I have to explain all this to Ettinger and Pelosi." His father considered that.

"Very well. I think you'll be safe. Enrico will of course go with you, and Martin's Internal Security people will be watching Uncle Guillermo's house."

Clete nodded. "I'll be all right."

"And I will go to the city too. Perhaps we could even have dinner together or ..."

"Why not?" Clete chuckled.

Now that the decision had been made, he felt an enormous sense of relief. It troubled him.

"Can you think of anything else?" his father asked.

No. Not a thing. Oh, yeah!

Clete smiled. His father looked at him curiously. "Dad, how would you like to loan me thirteen thousand dollars?"

"Excuse me?"

"I need to borrow thirteen thousand dollars," Clete asked. "Will you loan it to me.?"

"Of course. But why?"

"It involves a Mi?a," Clete said.

"You have become involved with a Mi?a?" Frade asked, disappointment all over his face.

"One of my men has," Clete said. "And her Argentine boyfriend found out about it, and is being a real bastard to the girl and her family."

"I thought for a moment..."

"One of my men, Dad, not me. I can get in enough romantic trouble without paying for it."

"I never took a Mi?a," Frade announced righteously. "Never. Not even in the long, lonely years."

"Before you met Claudia, you mean?"

His father ignored him. "A man who has to pay a woman is not really a man. I find the custom disgusting."

"Well, this guy, the Argentine, is apparently a real bastard. He co-signed a mortgage, and when he found out that the girl was seeing one of my officers, he told the bank he would no longer guarantee payment."

"I am not surprised. A man who would pay for sex ..."

Clete dug in his pocket and came out with the notes he took when Tony came to see him at the hospital.

"The mortgage is with the Anglo-Argentine Bank. The father's name is Alberghoni."

"And the man's name?"

Clete shrugged helplessly.

"It will be no problem," he said. "Your uncle Humberto is managing director of the Anglo-Argentine Bank. You and I will go to the library now and have a quiet word with him. And he and I will take personal pleasure in frustrating this man's ungentlemanly behavior. The mortgage will be paid in full by tomorrow."