"I gave the Cardinal the impression it would be a small ceremony, just the immediate families and the closest of friends."

"That's simply impossible, and you know it," she said.

"That's also the impression Cletus has," Welner pursued.

"Cletus better begin to understand who he is, and his obli gations," she said. "He is not in a position to insult people who believe they are the closest of friends."

"Of his? Or of Jorge's?"

"You know what I mean," she said. "Stop being difficult."

"Cletus has inherited from his father a great capacity to make himself difficult."

"Why do I think you have something in mind?"

"Someone, actually. What are you going to do about

Coronel Peron?"

"If you mean am I going to invite him. of course I am."

"When you showed Cletus your first rough draft of the guest list, he crossed the Coronel's name off with… what shall I say? A certain emphasis."

"Juan Peron is Cletus's godfather," Claudia said. "He was

Jorge's best friend. I don't know what's happened between them, but Cletus is just going to have to work it out."

Welner didn't reply.

"You did call him and tell him the Cardinal granted the dispensation?" Claudia asked.

"I called Senor Mallm," he said. "I wanted to tell Cletus in person. After I told you."


"If you called Enrico, then I had better get onto the tele phone with Pamela," she said, as much to herself as to him.

Pamela Mallin was the mother of the bride. "Can you find something to occupy you until luncheon?"

"I thought I would go see Cletus-and his aunt and grandfather-now."

She met his eyes.

"There will be others at luncheon," she said. "Humberto and Beatrice Frade. And her doctor."

"Oh, really?" he said noncommittally.

"She called to tell me that they would be spending the weekend at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. And I didn't know how not to suggest they have lunch here on their way."

He smiled. "Be sure to give them my best regards."

"I suppose I can deal with Beatrice by not telling her about the Cardinal's dispensation. All I need is her taking charge."

"I think that's a very good idea," he said. "She'll learn at

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, but Mrs. Howell can tell her Pamela Mallin is handling everything. I'll have a word with Mrs. Howell."

"I'd be grateful," Claudia said, then added, "For other good news, Alicia's young diplomat friend will be here for the weekend. I didn't know how to tell her no, either. My cup runneth over."

"There's nothing you can do about that, Claudia, except be grateful that he seems to be a fine young man. I like him."

"If he were an Argentine, I think I would, too," she said, then asked, "You wouldn't be willing to talk to her?"

"It would do absolutely no good," he said. "Haven't you seen the way she looks at him?"

"I don't want to have to arrange another hurried wed ding," she said.

"You think it's gone that far?"

"Haven't you seen the way she looks at him?" she quoted him, bitterly.

"If you like, Claudia, I will talk with her," Welner said.

"Now?"

"Let me deal with Cletus first. Am I invited to spend the night?"


"Of course you are," she said.

"In that case, I will see you later this afternoon."

She nodded.

"And of course, Claudia, you could pray," he said.

"What makes you think I haven't been?"

"More often, then," he said.

She shook her head and walked away.

When Father Welner got behind the wheel of his black 1940

Packard 280 convertible coupe to drive to Estancia San

Pedro y San Pablo, he remembered-as he often did-the not entirely good-willed ribbing he had taken from Jorge

Guillermo Frade when he'd been given the car by another wealthy family in appreciation of his pastoral services.

Frade (the best friend he had ever had in his life) had asked him, smiling wickedly, "purely as a matter of curiosity, you understand, Kurt," how he reconciled the Packard, his custom-tailored suits, and his well-furnished apartment in the expensive Recoleta district of Buenos Aires with his

Jesuit vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience.

With a straight face Welner had explained that since he readily admitted to being a weak man and a sinner, keeping two out of three of his vows wasn't bad. Frade had laughed heartily.

It took Welner forty-five minutes to drive the sixty kilo meters of two-lane macadam roads between the main house

(actually a complex of seven buildings) of Estancia Santo

Catalina to the main house (a complex of nine buildings) of

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. His route never took him off the property of the adjoining ranches. The terrain was the pampas, gently rolling hills extending to the horizon in all directions, broken here and there by clumps of trees and spotted all over by grazing cattle.

He saw the trees planted as a windbreak around the main house of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo long before he reached the complex.

Protected by the trees was the big house itself, a rambling structure surrounded on three sides by wide porches; a small church, La Capilla Nuestra Senora de los Milagros; several houses for the servants and the senior managers of the estancia; a large stable; a polo field; the main garage; el

Coronel's garage; and an aircraft hangar, around which were clustered three Piper Cub airplanes and a large twin-engine aircraft, a Lockheed Lodestar airliner, painted bright red.

In 1935, an enterprising Piper salesman had shipped two of the small, two-seater, high-wing monoplanes to Argentina and demonstrated their usefulness to cattle-raising opera tions on large ranches. He had almost lost the sale to

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo when he told the owner how useful they had proved to be on Texas's King Ranch; but

Frade had been so impressed with the potential of the air planes that he swallowed his dislike for anything Texan and ordered two Cubs on the spot, and later ordered two more.

Within six months of their arrival, he was flying one of them himself, first around Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, and then to visit Senora Claudia de Carzino-Cormano at

Estancia Santo Catalina. Within a year, there had been at least one Piper Cub at each of his four estancias, and landing strips had been built at both of his vineyards.

When Frade learned he was being appointed Deputy

Commander of the 2nd Cavalry Regiment at Santo Tome in

Corrientes Province, he had ordered a larger six-place

Beechcraft biplane, known as the "Staggerwing," its upper wing being placed to the rear of the lower.

As soon as he took command at Santo Tome, Frade had put his cavalrymen to work turning one of its pastures into a landing field for the Staggerwing.

It was an overnight trip by rail from Santo Tome to

Buenos Aires, and there was only one train a day. In the

Staggerwing, he could fly to Buenos Aires after the morning parade, spend several hours conducting the army's-and his own-business, and then fly back to Santo Tome in time to take the salute of the regiment at evening parade.

El Coronel Frade had quickly become an advocate for the use of light aircraft in the army, and during the 1941 annual maneuvers (he had become by then Commanding Officer of the Hiisares de Pueyrredon Cavalry Regiment, following in the steps of his father and his grandfather, who had founded the regiment), he had used Piper Cubs for reconnaissance and for message delivery.

This outrageously unorthodox behavior had shocked the cavalry purists, of course, but their criticism had been muted by their belief that Frade was almost certain to be become el General Frade, or El Presidente Frade, and most likely both.

Shortly afterward, Frade had with unconcealed pride shown Welner the story in the New Orleans Times-Picayune headlined, "Lt. Cletus H. Frade Earns Marine Corps Wings of

Gold." At the same time, he had observed, "Of course, flying is in our blood."

The Staggerwing Beechcraft was now on the bottom of

Samborombon Bay, having crashed in flames after Cletus H.

Frade had flown it into the antiaircraft weaponry of the

Portuguese-registered Reine de la Mer. But also on the bottom of the bay were the Reine de la Mer itself and the German U boat tied up alongside her when she was torpedoed by the

American submarine Cletus Frade had led to her.

The official Argentine story was that the Reine de la Mer had been destroyed by a mysterious explosion.

The Lockheed Lodestar had been sent by the OSS to replace the Staggerwing. The official US story was that it was a gift, a small token of the respect and friendship felt toward Colonel Frade by the President of the United

States.

Father Welner finally pulled up in front of the big house.

A heavyset man in his forties, wearing a full mustache and carrying a 7mm Mauser cavalry carbine in one mas sive hand, came quickly off the porch and opened the

Packard's door. "Padre," he said, not quite able to wholly restrain his Pavlovian urge to salute. It turned into an awk ward wave.

Welner had known for years Sargento Rudolpho Gomez,

Argentine Cavalry, Retired.

"Rudolpho," Welner said, offering his hand. "Senor

Clete?"


"In el Coronel's garage," Rudolpho said. "With Enrico.

Shall I put your bag in your room, Padre?"

For years, a small apartment in the sprawling structure had been set aside for Welner's exclusive use.

"No, thank you, I won't be able to stay."

Welner stepped onto the porch, then walked down it and around the corner of the house to the rear. The working buildings were behind the big house. In front of the house, in the direction of the airstrip, was a carefully tended, formal

English garden.

When he reached what was still known as "El Coronel's

Garage," he found Cletus Howell Frade nearly buried-both feet off the floor-in the engine compartment of an enor mous black Horch convertible sedan. Only a soiled pair of khaki trousers and a battered pair of American cowboy boots were visible.

A heavyset man in his late forties, with a carefully culti vated, now graying cavalryman's mustache, was sound asleep and snoring on a leather couch near the door of the garage. He had a short-barreled Browning semiautomatic

12-gauge shotgun in his lap, and there was a leather car tridge belt beside him. He was Suboficial Mayor (sergeant major) Enrico Rodriguez, Retired. Sergeant Rodriguez had been bom at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, and left it at sixteen to become batman to newly commissioned Subte niente Jorge Guillermo Frade. He had served his officer until his death, and had himself been left for dead in the bloody and bullet-riddled Horch.

Though still recovering from his wounds, he nevertheless now saw the protection of el Coronel's only son as his mis sion in life, and was determined not to fail him, as he thought he had shamefully failed to protect his father.

The last time Welner had seen the Horch, the hood, win dows, and doors had all been pierced by bullet and buckshot holes, and the bright red leather upholstery and carpeting had been stained black with blood.

On the car there was no sign of any of that now. But against the wall of the garage were both bullet-holed sec tions of the split windshield, apparently replaced so recently there hadn't been chance to throw them out.

I wonder how Cletus is going to manage leaving Enrico home when he goes on his honeymoon?

Or, for that matter, whether he should? A number of people in Argentina, not only Germans, would like to see Cletus

Frade dead.

Including Enrico Mallin.

That's not true. I should be ashamed of myself for even thinking that in jest.

No father likes to learn that his beloved nineteen-year old unmarried daughter is about to become a mother; but

Enrico would really not like to see the father of his forth coming grandchild dead. Perhaps dragged across the pampas for a kilometer or two behind a galloping horse, but not dead.

Father Welner bowed his head without really thinking about it, and offered yet another prayer for the peaceful repose of his friend's soul. Then he walked up to the car.

As he approached the car, from beneath the hood came a profane, colorful string of expletives-an interesting combi nation of cultures, Father Welner observed with a smile:

Texan, United States Marine Corps, with a soupcon of Spanish

Argentine thrown in.

"I will pray to God, my son," Father Welner announced loudly, unctuously, in British-accented English, "that He may forgive, in His infinite mercy, your profane and obscene outburst."

Cletus Howell Frade, a lanky, dark-haired, 180-pound twenty-four-year-old, wiggled out of the engine compart ment. His face was grease-stained, and he held several wrenches in his grease-stained hands.

"What brings you out into the country?" he challenged, smiling. "I thought you hated fresh air."

"I am the bearer of good news," Welner said. "The Cardinal

Archbishop has agreed to permit Dorotea's priest to participate in your wedding."

"That's great," Clete said. "So what happens now?" no

"I think we can have the wedding next Saturday."

"Why not tomorrow?"

"Because things aren't done that way. Arrangements have to be made."

Clete snorted.

"I'm also here as your confessor, my son," Welner said.

"To hear your confession."

"You know what you can do with your confession,

Father," Frade said.

"Marriage is a sacrament," Welner said. "You are required to confess, and be granted absolution, before taking those holy vows."

"I'll give you 'marriage is a sacrament,' " Clete said. "But you can put your absolution in the same place you can put my confession."

"Nevertheless, having concluded that you do in fact heartily repent your sins, and intend to go and sin no more, I grant you absolution. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost."

He made the sign of the cross.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," Clete said, no longer smil ing. "It makes me uncomfortable."

"But on the other hand, I am now comfortable with assisting in celebrating the nuptial mass."

Clete shook his head in resignation.

"Let me have one more crack at this sonofabitch, and then

I'll buy you a beer," he said.

"Unless it would strain your hospitality beyond the breaking point, I'd really rather have a glass of Champagne."

"My vino is your vino, Padre," Clete said.

Welner chuckled, and followed him down the cement stairs into the work area beneath the huge automobile.

El Coronel's Garage-Welner wondered how long it would take before it became known as "Senor Cletus's Garage"-was better equipped than most commercial garages. One wall was completely covered with tools, each in its own place, outlined in red paint.

Jorge Guillermo Frade had truly loved his Horch touring sedan, and had insisted on maintaining it himself, although there were more than a dozen mechanics on Estancia San

Pedro y San Pablo.

From the moment it had arrived in Argentina until Cletus had suddenly appeared there five months before, only two people had ever been behind the wheel of the enormous Ger man convertible touring car, el Coronel and Suboficial

Mayor Enrico Rodriguez.

Father Welner looked up at the car's undercarriage, where

Clete, standing on a wooden footstool, was illuminating the lower side of the engine with a work light.

"What exactly are you doing?" he asked.

"I'll be damned," Cletus Frade said.

"I was thinking in terms of mechanics, rather than your spiritual condition."

Clete chuckled, reached into his pocket for a wrench, and began to unbolt something.

He's obviously a skilled mechanic. Why should that sur prise me?

In a moment Clete dropped off the footstool, clutching an eighteen-inch-long piece of metal tubing, bent into a con torted shape. He started to show it to the priest but was inter rupted by the sudden appearance of a thin stream of lubricating oil. He quickly found a bucket, arranged it to catch the oil, then motioned for the priest to follow him out of the work pit. He headed for Enrico, then stopped and turned to the priest. "I had entirely too much oil pressure," he said. "The needle was almost off the dial. I couldn't figure out why."

"And now you can?"

He showed the priest the length of tubing. "Here," he said, pointing to a spot near one end, close to the connecting fas tener. "See?"

"I don't know what I'm looking at."

"You see that dent?" Clete said. "Jesus, it damned near pinched the flow off completely."

"What did?"

"Whatever hit the pipe there," Clete said.

"What did hit the pipe there?"

Clete met his eyes. "I'll guess a buckshot," he said. "I think a metal-jacketed.45 bullet would have just gone right on through."

The assassins of el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade had been armed with Thompson submachine guns firing copper jacketed 230-grain bullets, and with shotguns firing 00 buckshot pellets.

What a stupid question for me to ask.

"Can it be repaired?"

"I don't know. I think it can be expanded from the inside; it's close to the end. If it can't, I'm fucked."

"Among the many gentling effects I devoutly hope

Dorotea will have on you is the cleaning up of your lan guage."

Though they were not speaking loudly, their conversation was enough to wake Enrico. He opened his eyes and put his hand on the pistol grip of the shotgun, then recognized the priest and quickly rose to his feet. "Padre," he said.

"Enrico. How are you feeling?"

"I am fine, Padre."

"He's lying through his teeth, Father," Clete said in Spanish.

"Isn't that a sin? Lying to a priest?"

"One of the worst," Welner said. "Unless, of course, it's in a good cause."

"Every morning, when I tell him to stay in bed," Clete went on, "he tells me that he can't sleep. So I let him come down here, and five minutes later he's sound asleep and snoring like a sea elephant."

"I just closed my eyes for a moment," Enrico said.

"Two hours ago," Clete said. He handed Enrico the piece of tubing. "See the dent?"

"Si, Senor."

"That's why we had too much oil pressure," Clete said.

"Can you get that out of there? Without ruining the tubing?"

"Of course, Senor Clete."

"If you rupture the tubing, I'm fu… in trouble, Enrico."

"I understand, Senor Clete."

"Father Welner and I are going up to the house."

"Si, Senor."


[ TWO ]

There were perhaps twenty cases of wine and Champagne stacked against the side of the big house near the kitchen door. Clete reached into one of them and came out with two bottles. He looked at the priest and gestured at the stacked cases. "This goddamn thing is getting out of hand," he said.

"This is all for the reception."

"The sacrament of marriage, Cletus, is not a 'goddamned thing.' "

"Sorry," Clete said. "You know what I mean."

"I'm not sure I do," Welner said.

"In Texas, in these circumstances, the guilty couple would make a quick trip to Reno, or maybe over the border into

Mexico, and come back a married couple. This was sup posed to be a small, private ceremony."

"This is not Texas," Welner said.

"How can it be-and that 'small, private ceremony' I got from you-how can it be small and private when there's going to be two hundred people here for the wedding?"

"This is not Texas," Welner repeated. "There are people who had to be invited."

Clete resumed walking toward his-formerly el Coronel

's-apartment, a bottle of wine in each hand.

"Why?"

"Because they are family friends and would be deeply hurt if they weren't," Welner said. "For example, el Coronel

Juan Domingo Peron, whose name you mistakenly crossed off of Claudia's guest list."

Clete opened a door into the house by standing on his left foot and then pushing on the lever handle with his cowboy boot-shod right foot. He turned and looked at the priest.

"That wasn't a mistake," he said. "I crossed the son ofabitch's name off on purpose."


"And after discussing the matter with me, Sefiora de

Car/ino-Cormano put it back on."

"Christ!" Clete said disgustedly, and resumed walking down the wide corridor to his apartment. Welner walked quickly after him.

A tanned, stocky, short-haired, blond woman in her for ties, who was wearing a simple black dress with a single strand of pearls, came out of the side door that led to one of the apartments and blocked Clete's path.

"I was about to come get you," she announced. "And where are you going with that wine?" And then she saw

Welner. "How nice to see you, Father," she added and, smiling, offered him her hand.

"Mrs. Howell," Welner said.

That was a mother, a good strong mother, talking to a son.

She may not have borne Cletus, but she raised him from infancy. They are mother and son.

"I was just about to tell him-I spoke with Claudia-that you were coming for lunch. And I wanted him to be cleaner than that." She gestured at his dirty clothing and grease stained hands.

"I am en route to the shower," he said.

"With the wine?"

"With the wine," he said. "We're celebrating-you heard?-the Cardinal has agreed to have Dorotea's priest in the wedding."

"I heard," she said. "And Claudia told me who was responsible. Thank you, Father."

"I did nothing," Welner said.

"Why don't you come with me? And we'll have a little

Champagne to thank you."

"Father Welner and I are having a private little chat," Clete said, smiling at her. "You know, man to man? Things a bridegroom should know?"

She smiled and shook her head in resignation. "You don't have to go with him, Father," Martha Williamson Howell said. "He has a tendency to believe that what he wants is what everybody wants."

"In that, Mrs. Howell, he is very much like his father."


"We're having lunch in the gazebo," she said, "in," she looked at her watch, "twenty-five minutes."

"Yes, ma'am," Clete said.

"Go easy on the wine," she said, and stepped back through the door to her apartment.

Clete went the rest of the way down the corridor to his own apartment, which consisted of a sitting room, a bed room, and what had been known as "el Coronel's study." As soon as he was inside he began to unbutton his shirt. "Open one of these, will you?" he said, handing the priest the wine.

"I'll be out in a minute."

"With great pleasure," the priest said, and went to the bar in the sitting room to find glasses and a corkscrew as Clete disappeared into the bedroom.

Welner opened one of the bottles of wine, poured himself a glass, and then walked into el Coronel's private study.

A thought occurred to him that he'd had many times before: If some scholar ever decided to write The Early Years of Cletus

Howell Frade: A Biography, he could do ninety percent of his research right in this room, which General Edelmiro Far-rell, a close friend of el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade, had described as "Jorge's shrine to his son."

Years earlier, Cletus Marcus Howell, Clete's maternal grandfather, had blamed Jorge Guillermo Frade for the death during her second pregnancy of his daughter and the unborn child. She and her baby-Cletus-were in the United States when she died.

The Old Man had vowed that his grandson would never return to Argentina, where young Cletus had been born, and he had the influence to make good on his vow. When Jorge

Guillermo Frade had appeared in Texas to claim his son, he had been arrested by Texas Rangers, thrown in jail for ninety days for trespassing, and then deported into Mexico.

The Argentine Ambassador in Washington had reported that the U.S. government would never issue him a visa again.

Thus, Jorge Guillermo Frade had never seen his son from the time he was a year old until he had appeared in

Argentina five months before. Nevertheless, with the help of a firm of lawyers in Midland, Texas, where Clete had been raised by his uncle and aunt, he had kept up with him.

There were more than a dozen thick scrapbooks in el

Coronel's private study, filled with clippings from the Mid land newspaper-and later, from other newspapers-tracing his son's life. There were guest lists from children's fourth birthday parties; there were notices from the Future Farmers of

America; there were reports about Clete's years at Texas

A M and Tulane in New Orleans, and then of his exploits when he became a Marine and a fighter pilot, whose seven victories over Guadalcanal made him an ace.

The walls of el Coronel's private study were covered with photographs of his son. And there was a large oil portrait of the late Elizabeth-Ann Howell de Frade holding their infant son Cletus Howell Frade in her arms.

It had been the war, and the war only, that had finally brought father and son together. It had come to the attention of the Office of Strategic Services that the man who would very likely be the next President of the Republic of

Argentina had a son who was a Marine officer.

After being discharged from the Marine Corps, ostensibly for medical reasons, Clete had come to Argentina, ostensibly representing Howell Petroleum. Argentina (through the

Sociedad Mercantil de Importation de Productos Petrolfferos) imported a substantial portion of its petroleum needs- refined and crude-from Howell Petroleum (Venezuela); thus the cover story was that Cletus was in Argentina to make sure that SMIPP was not diverting petroleum products to the German/Italian/Japanese Axis.

He was actually an OSS agent charged with two missions:

First, to establish a relationship with the father he did not know, and if possible to tilt him in favor of the Americans in the war. Second, to somehow arrange for neutral Argentina

(whose army was in fact pro-German) to stop offering shelter in Argentine waters to German vessels replenishing German submarines operating in the South Atlantic.

His first residence in Argentina was as a guest in the home of Enrico Mallfn, SMIPP's Managing Director. Mallm had an English wife, a fourteen-year-old son, and a nineteen year-old blond-haired daughter named Dorotea (whom

Clete thought of at the time as the Virgin Princess).

He had been in the Mallfn home less than a week when he met his father for the first time-a very emotional encounter for both of them. That same day, el Coronel had taken him to a mansion on Avenida Libertador overlooking the Buenos

Aires racetrack. The house had been built by Clete's grand uncle Guillermo, it was explained; since Guillermo's death, it had been used by the Frade family as a guest house.

It was now Clete's, it was further explained.

Though el Coronel would brook no argument, the arrangement in fact suited Clete. It would not only give him a base of operations for his OSS activities he would not have in the Mallfn home, but also the Virgin Princess was making it clear that she was not satisfied with the platonic little sister role he had assigned to her.

Clete's OSS activities had exacted costs. For starters, the

Germans had sent a pair of assassins to the Avenida Libertador house. Warned that they were coming, he had been prepared, and had killed both of them, but not before they had brutally murdered the housekeeper, Senora Marianna Maria Dolores

Rodriguez de Pellano, a lifelong Frade family servant who had cared for Clete as an infant and who was Enrico

Rodriguez's sister. But the highest price of all had been the assassination of el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade, also ordered by the Germans. Not only had El Coronel assisted his American son in the sinking of the replenish ment ship, but the Germans were well aware that el Coronel

Frade was the driving force behind the coup d'etat the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos was planning against the regime of Pres ident Ramon S. Castillo. If the revolution succeeded, el

Coronel Frade would become President of Argentina; and, influenced by his son, he would certainly tilt Argentina toward the Allies-or worse, engineer a declaration of war on the Axis. In addition to preventing him from becoming president, El Coronel Frade's assassination would send a message to the GOU: that the Germans rewarded their friends and punished their enemies.

When his father was assassinated, Clete was in the United


States (and newly promoted to major in the U.S. Marine

Corps), where he was being trained to assume duties-as cover for his OSS activities-as the Assistant Naval Attache of the U.S. Embassy in Buenos Aires.

His father's death changed the OSS's plans for him. As far as the Argentines were concerned, the Argentine-born Cle-tus

Howell Frade was an Argentine citizen. And under

Argentine law, on his father's death he had become sole heir to the Frade fortune, one of the largest in Argentina. Both of these things could be put to use by the OSS.

He had returned to Argentina under cover of a son come home to bury his father and claim his inheritance. On the day he placed his father's body in the Frade family tomb in the Recoleta cemetery, Dorotea Mallin had coolly informed him that as a result of one of their (actually infrequent) liaisons, she was carrying his child.

Welner knew most of the details of Clete's involvement in the coup d'etat-in no small part because el Coronel had written Outline Blue, its operations order. The success of

Outline Blue had installed General Arturo Rawson in the

Pink House as President, and General Pedro Ramfrez as

Minister of Defense.

During the coup, Clete had flown Rawson (in an Argentine

Army Piper Cub) from the revolution's headquarters at

Campo de Mayo, the military base on the outskirts of

Buenos Aires, to observe the progress of the two columns of revolutionary troops advancing on the Pink House.

Meanwhile, the Lockheed transport had been kept ready at

Campo de Mayo's airfield. If the coup d'etat had failed,

Clete would have flown the leaders of the revolution to safety in Uruguay.

The priest also knew that Clete had been involved in two more OSS operations since his return to Argentina. But- despite his normally excellent sources of information-he knew very little about these, except that the first had dealt with a second replenishment ship the Germans had sent into the River Plate, and that the second had something to do with the transfer of Nazi money into Argentina.


Wondering idly what Dorotea Mallin de Frade would do with the shrine to her husband once she was legally installed in El Patr6n's apartment, Welner took a last look around the room and returned to the sitting room to replenish his glass.

A moment later, Cletus Frade emerged from the bedroom, wearing only a clean pair of khaki trousers, fresh from his shower. He helped himself to a glass of wine. "I don't like that sonofabitch, Padre," he said.

Welner had no doubt that the sonofabitch was el Coronel

Juan Domingo Peron. "He was your father's best friend," he argued.

That's not entirely true, he thought. Not only because I believe that I was Jorge Frade's best friend, but also because Peron and Jorge Frade had grown apart as they had grown older. The two men, he knew, had been very close when they were cadets at the Military Academy, and Perdn had been best man at Jorge's wedding, and was Cletus

Frade's godfather.

It is really difficult for men of vastly different means-

Peron has only his Army pay-to remain friends.

But not only that: Although publicly, Jorge loyally dis missed the rumors concerning Peron's personal life as out rageous, I think he knew they were true.

"Best friend?" Clete challenged sarcastically. "I find that very hard to believe."

"He's your godfather," Welner said.

"He's a goddamned Nazi, and you know it."

"I don't know that, and neither do you," Welner argued.

"He's toeing the Nazi party line," Clete said. " 'El Coronel was killed by bandits.' He knows goddamned well the

Germans ordered him killed."

The priest shrugged. There was no point in arguing about that.

Clete chuckled bitterly. "And he's a dirty old man," he said. "Who likes little girls. And don't tell me I don't know that. I was in the house on Libertador when he brought one in. She was fourteen. Maybe younger."

"Judge not, lest ye be judged."

"I don't want that sonofabitch at my wedding," Clete said.


"I get back to my original irrefutable argument, Cletus:

This is not Texas. Things are different here. If you are wise, you will learn to understand that, and make the necessary adjustments."

Welner was very much afraid the argument was about to get out of hand-tlete was his father's son, just as hard headed-when Enrico came into the room.

"You're sorry, but the tubing split, right?" Clete challenged.

"The line is back on the car, Senor Clete, and the oil pres sure is now correct," Enrico said.

"El Padre here has invited el Coronel Peron to my wed ding," Clete responded. "I suppose you think that's a good idea, too?"

"Of course, Senor Clete," Enrico said, making it clear the question surprised him. "He was your father's friend. He is your godfather."

"Jesus!" Clete said, and shook his head in resignation.

But from the tone of Clete's voice, Welner concluded that the issue of Juan Domingo Peron had been defused. He was relieved. Cletus Frade would have enough trouble in

Argentina without insulting Peron.

"I don't trust that oil line," Clete went on. "After lunch, we'll take it for a ride."

"Si, Senor," Enrico said, "I will bring it to the house." He nodded his head respectfully to the priest and left the room.

[THREE]

Don Cletus Howell Frade, el patron of Estancia San Pedro y

San Pablo and its 84,205 (more or less) hectares, sat at the head of a table elegantly set for six in a gazebo in the formal

English gardens in front of the main house.

At the foot of the table sat his grandfather, Cletus Marcus

Howell, a tall, pale, slender, and sharp-featured septuagenarian wearing a gray pin-striped suit. Howell was Chairman of the

Board of Howell Petroleum, and of Howell Petroleum

(Venezuela). Everyone thought of him, more or less fondly, as "the Old Man."

Father Welner was sitting to Cletus's right. Martha

Williamson Howell sat across from him, while Martha's daughters, Marjorie, nineteen, and Elizabeth (Beth), twenty one, dressed very much like their mother, sat opposite each other. The girls were Cletus's cousins, but their relationship was that of brother and sisters.

When one of the maids approached the head of the table with a bottle of wine, Cletus turned his wineglass over. The maid moved to Cletus Howell, poured a small amount of wine in his glass, and stepped back to await his judgment.

He took a sip, smiled appreciatively, and made a thumbs-up gesture to the maid, who then walked around the table to fill

Mrs. Howell's glass.

"No wine, Cletus?" the Old Man asked in Spanish, as if surprised.

"Don't encourage him, Dad," Martha Howell said, also in

Spanish. "I don't know how much he had before lunch."

"I'm going to take the Horch for a ride after lunch," Clete said. "To change the subject. But don't let me stop you."

"Oh, I won't. This isn't bad," Howell said, unconsciously switching to English.

"You've got it fixed, Clete?" Marjorie asked.

"That's what I'm going to find out, Squirt," he said.

"Can I drive it?

"Why not?"

"And me?" Beth asked.

"Females in love should not drive," Cletus said solemnly.

"What makes you think I'm in love?"

"You have been in love ever since you discovered there are two sexes," he said. "And I saw you making eyes at that gaucho at the stable last night."

"Oh, you go to hell, Clete," she said, blushing.

"What gaucho last night?" Cletus Marcus Howell demanded.

"I was just pulling her chain, Grandpa," Clete said quickly. "Yeah, Beth, you can come, if you want."

Is Jorge Guillermo Frade spinning in his casket, Father


Welner thought, at the thought of two young norteamericano females driving his beloved Horch?

Two maids began serving empanadas, half-moon-shaped dumplings filled either with chopped, seasoned meat, or blue cheese and ham.

"Is this lunch?" Cletus Marcus Howell asked, looking at the dumpling on his plate with suspicion.

"This is what we Argentines think of as an appetizer,

Grandpa," Cletus said.

"They're delicious," Marjorie said. "I love them!"

"I hate to think what might be in them," the Old Man said.

The faint sound of an aircraft engine caught Cletus's attention and he tried to look up at the sky. The roof of the gazebo blocked his view. After a moment, he pushed his chair back and walked out of the gazebo and stood looking up at the sky.

Enrico, who had been sitting in a wicker chair in the shade of a tree twenty yards from the gazebo, got out of the chair and walked to where Frade was standing. He had his shotgun cradled in his arms.

"Binoculars, Enrico?" Clete asked.

Enrico went to the wicker chair and returned with a pair of leather-cased binoculars. Clete searched the sky and then put the binoculars to his eyes.

A moment later, Marjorie Howell, then the girls, and finally Mr. Howell and Father Welner joined the two men.

They all looked skyward, where they saw a high-winged, single-engine monoplane flying in the general direction of

Estancia Santo Catalina.

"May I please have those, Cletus?" Cletus Marcus Howell asked, and Clete handed him the binoculars. He started a moment. "What the hell is that, Cletus?" the Old Man asked.

"It's an airplane, Grandfather."

"With an iron cross on the body, and a Nazi- whatchamacallit?-swastika on the tail!" the old man announced.

"Really?" Clete asked innocently.

"Who was that, Clete?" Martha Howell asked.


"The Luftwaffe," Clete said. "They come over regularly.

And once a week, tit for tat, I buzz the German embassy."

"What was that, Cletus?" the Old Man demanded.

Clete ignored him.

Martha Howell took the binoculars from her father-in-law and looked skyward. By the time she found the airplane, it was too far away to pick out what the Old Man had seen.

"I didn't see any swastika, Dad," she said.

The Old Man looked at his daughter-in-law. "You know what's going on, don't you?" he challenged.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Dad," she said.

"The hell you don't," the Old Man said. "God damn it,

Martha!"

"Hey!" Martha Howell said warningly.

"And I'm expected to believe the old guy's carrying that shotgun to bag a few quail for dinner, right?"

"Dad, Enrico blames himself for what happened to

Clete's father," Martha Howell said. "Clete doesn't have the heart to run him off."

His disbelief showed on his face. "And he had those binoculars handy in case Clete wanted to go bird-watching right?"

"Let it go, Dad!" Martha Howell said, almost threaten ingly.

"I'm an old man, and in my lifetime I've made a lot of mistakes, but not one of them holds a candle to the one I made when I got suckered into getting my family involved in helping the goddamn OSS."

"Since we're telling all our family secrets, grandfather, why don't you tell Father Welner those are stolen binocu lars?" Clete said.

Welner looked surprised.

"You think he's kidding, don't you?" the Old Man said.

"They are. They were stolen from the U.S. Navy, and Clete bought them, knowing damned well they were stolen, from a hockshop in New Orleans."

"I have no idea what he's talking about," Clete said.

"The hell you don't! You boasted about it!"


By then they had walked back to the gazebo. The empanadas had been replaced with the main course, a bife de chorizo (the Argentine version of a New York strip steak) on a bed of spinach and mushrooms.

"Oh, isn't that attractive!" Martha Williamson Howell said.

The Old Man looked down suspiciously at his plate.

"What the hell is that? Spinach?" he asked.

"God, I hope so!" Clete said, which triggered giggles in the girls.

The Old Man looked at them indignantly.

He's old, Martha thought. Very old. And when he's gone,

Clete will be the only man in the family.

"If you don't like it, don't eat it," she said.

"I didn't say I wasn't going to eat it. But that's a hell of a way to serve a steak. They're really strange, these people down here." He looked at Welner. "No offense, Father."

"None taken, Mr. Howell," Welner said.

[ONE]

Estancia Santo Catalina

Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province

1355 1 May 1943

Before landing, Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein made a low pass over the landing strip to make sure one or more five-hundred-kilo cows were not happily munching away on the runway. It was a necessary precaution in

Argentina, where cattle roamed freely and landing strips were rarely protected by fences. There were no cattle.


Three light aircraft were lined up beside the runway. Two were yellow Piper Cubs and the third was a Cessna C-34, a small four-seater. The Cessna, he knew, belonged to

Estancia Santo Catalina, and probably the Pipers did, too, although Cletus Frade might have flown one over from his estancia.

He put the Fieseler Storch into a tight 180-degree turn, lined up with the runway, retarded the throttle, cranked down the flaps, and touched down smoothly at about forty knots.

While the Storch was not much of an airplane, compared to the Focke-Wulf 190 fighter he had flown in his last assignment (whose 1,600-horsepower engine propelled it to

418 mph), it was an interesting airplane. If the Piper Cub could be compared to an aerial bicycle, then the Storch was an aerial motorcycle, say a BMW four-cylinder opposed, shaft driven motorcycle.

By the time he had finished his landing roll and taxied the

Storch to park beside the Cessna, three people had come out from the house to greet him. His heart jumped a little when he saw that one of them was Senorita Alicia Carzino-Cormano, although he had in fact expected her to come to the landing strip once she saw the Storch overhead. He had a quick mental image of Alicia two days before, naked in his bed, staring down at him with her large dark eyes, and he was as quickly ashamed of himself.

The others were the Duartes, Senor Humberto and Senora

Beatrice Frade de Duarte, both of whom he had more or less also expected. Once Senora de Duarte had learned of his weekend visit to the estancia, he had known she'd be waiting for him anxiously.

He opened the side door of the Storch and climbed out.

"I am so happy to see you, dear Peter…" Beatrice Duarte said, grabbing his arms, pulling him to her, and planting a hard, wet kiss of greeting on his cheek-as opposed to a pro forma smack of lips in the general vicinity of his face, "… and you're just in time for lunch."

"It is always a pleasure to see you, Senora," he said in

Spanish. His Spanish was perfect Castilian. He had learned

Spanish in Spain when he was nineteen (a fact that he had passed on to Alicia). He had not told her that his instructress had been a twenty-five-year-old redheaded Madrilena, who had come to believe that a young blond German fighter pilot was the answer to her carnal frustration following the death of her husband, who had been killed in action in the Civil

War.

He offered his hand to Humberto Duarte, a tall, slender, elegantly tailored man of forty-six years. "Good afternoon, sir," he said.

"It's always a pleasure to see you, Peter," Duarte said.

Peter turned to Alicia. "And an even greater pleasure to see you, Alicia."

She blushed, gave him a formal kiss on the cheek, and quickly backed away.

Peter inclined his head barely perceptibly toward the Piper

Cubs. Alicia moved her head just perceptibly, telling him, no, Clete was not flying one of them.

"You flew?" Humberto said.

"Yes, sir," Peter said. "With the permission of the military attache, I am making what they call a 'proficiency flight.' At the moment, I am the acting military attache, so I gave myself permission."

"Can you really do that?" Alicia asked. "Does the Ambas sador know?"

"Actually, no," Peter confessed said. "It's a ease of what the ambassador doesn't know can't upset him."

"Oh, you naughty boy, you!" Beatrice cried happily. "He's just like Jorge, always doing something naughty, isn't he,

Humberto? Isn't he so like Jorge?"

"Yes, dear," Humberto said, "he is."

She sounded as if Jorge, her son, was right around the corner and could be expected to appear at any minute. He was, in fact, dead.

El Captain Jorge Alejandro Duarte, of the Husares de

Pueyrredon, had been serving with von Paulus's Army at

Stalingrad as an observer when he'd been shot down while making an unauthorized flight in a Storch. After his death

(though it was in fact a consequence of foolishness and not heroism), the Foreign Minister, von

Ribbentrop had realized that, if properly handled, the sad occasion might accrue to the public-relations benefit of the

Third Reich. Captain Duarte's corpse would be returned to

Argentina accompanied by a suitable Luftwaffe officer.

There Duarte would be posthumously decorated with the

Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross. That could not fail to impress the Argentines: One of their own had laid down his life in their common battle against the anti-Christ Bolshevik

Russians.

The commanding officer of Jagdstaffel (Fighter Squadron)

232, stationed on the outskirts of Berlin, met the requirements for a "suitable officer." Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wacht-stein had not only received the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross from the hands of Adolf Hitler himself, but, as a result of his service with the Condor Legion during the Spanish Civil

War, he spoke Spanish fluently. Additionally, he was a

Pomeranian aristocrat, whose father, Generalleutnant Graf

Karl-Friedrich von Wachtstein, was assigned to the Oberkom mando der Wehrmacht.

Major von Wachtstein was summoned to Berlin, and there introduced to an Argentine officer, Colonel of Mountain

Troops Juan Domingo Peron. Peron had been in Europe for several years, both as an observer attached to the German and Italian armies, and to study the social programs of Ger many and Italy, with an eye to their adaptation in Argentina.

He was known to be quite sympathetic to the Axis cause, and more important, was a lifelong friend of Hauptmann

Duarte's uncle, Oberst Jorge Guillermo Frade, who might very well be the next President of Argentina.

At this time, it was felt that Frade, too, was sympathetic to the Axis cause. Not only was he a graduate of the Kriegss chule, but his anti-American sentiments were well known

(even if it was not generally known that his anti-Americanism was based on the Americans having forcibly denied him contact with his son).

Coronel Peron liked the young officer at first sight, and agreed that he was just the sort of man to escort the remains of

Capitan Duarte to Argentina. This instant favor from such an important Argentine had long-lasting consequences for von Wachtstein. And in the office of Foreign Minister von

Ribbentrop, he was told that after the funeral of Captain

Duarte he would remain in Argentina as the Assistant Military

Attache for Air at the German Embassy. There his orders would of course be to do whatever the Military Attache wanted him to do, but he was also expected to ingratiate himself as much as possible with the Duarte family, Oberst Jorge

Guillermo Frade, and Oberst Juan Domingo Peron, whose return to Argentina was planned in the near future.

Before leaving for Buenos Aires, Peter met with his father on the family estate in Pomerania. There Generalleutnant von Wachtstein had words for his son that few Germans were speaking openly. There was a growing possibility, he told him, that Germany would lose the war. If that happened, he went on to explain, German currency would be worthless, and the von Wachtstein family could not meet its obligations to the people who lived on their estates and looked to them for protection, as they had for hundreds of years.

Neutral Argentina would be an ideal place to cache money

(preferably exchanged for gold, Swiss francs, or American dollars). In fact, Peter's father had already transferred a great deal of money into secret, numbered Swiss bank accounts-a very risky act, Peter knew. If it came to the attention of the authorities, the penalty would be a court-martial and a possible death sentence, as well as the forfeiture of all the Wachtstein estates.

Before father and son parted, Generalleutnant von Wacht stein gave Peter all the cash he could lay his hands on- nearly a hundred thousand dollars in Swiss, English, and

United States currency-together with the numbers of the secret bank accounts. He would have to somehow transfer to

Argentina what was in the Swiss accounts.

If the worst happened for Germany-as Peter's father expected-this money could be the salvation of the von

Wachtstein family and their estates.

Finally, and as a last resort, his father explained, there was a friend he might turn to, Manfred Alois Graf von Lutzen berger, the German Ambassador to Argentina.


On von Wachtstein's first night in Buenos Aires, Beatrice

Frade de Duarte had arranged for him to be put up in the

Frade family guest house on Avenida del Libertador, either blissfully unaware-or simply not caring-that her brother had already turned the house over to his onetime USMC fighter pilot son, Cletus.

The encounter between officers of warring powers could easily have been awkward, but it turned out quite the other way. In the library of the guest house, over a bottle and a half of el Coronel Frade's cognac, the two had quickly come to the conclusion that as fellow fighter pilots, intimately familiar with both the joys of flying and the horrors of war, they had far more in common with each other than they had with anyone else in Buenos Aires.

They knew, of course, that very few people indeed would understand this, and after Major von Wachtstein was pro vided with "more suitable" quarters, both officers discreetly kept their initial meeting-and their budding friendship- under wraps. And when they were formally introduced the next day at Capitan Duarte's funeral, both showed to each other the icy courtesy expected of officers of belligerent powers meeting in a neutral country.

Two weeks later, Oberst Karl-Heinz Griiner, the military attache of the German Embassy, decided to have Cletus

Frade assassinated-information that came to von Wacht stein. After a good deal of painful thought, he concluded that an honorable officer could not stand idly by while such a murder was committed, and he warned Frade.

Frade was therefore ready for the assassins when they appeared at the guest house, and killed them, though not before they had killed Enrico Rodriguez's sister, the house keeper.

Cletus Frade, himself no stranger to honor (though the sense of formal chivalry that Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von

Wachtstein had sucked in with his mother's milk was a little amusing to Frade), sought Peter out and announced that he was in his debt for his life. As far as he was concerned, von

Wachtstein had a blank check on anything that was his to give.


Though Peter's initial reaction to Clete's offer was chilly

(he had done what he had done, he explained, solely because his officer's code of chivalry demanded it), the respect of the two men for each other had grown, and their friendship had been cemented.

And then a letter came from von Wachtstein's father, car ried, secretly and at great risk, to von Lutzenberger by the pilot of a Lufthansa Condor. The subject of the letter-in the very deepest sense-was chivalry and honor.

Schloss Wachtstein



Pomern



Hansel I have just learned that you have reached

Argentina saftely, and thus it is time for this letter.

The greatest violation of the code of chivalry by which I, and you, and your brothers and so many of the von

Washtsteins before us have tried to live is of course regicide. I want you to know that before I decided that honor demands that I contribute what I can to such a course of action, that I considered all of the rami cations, both spiritualand worldly, and that I am at peace with my decision.

A soldier's duty is rst to his God, and then to his honor, and then to his country. The

Allies in recent weeks have assused the

German state of the commission of 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 a are not only based on fact, but are actually worse than alleged.

The of cer corpps has failed its duty to

Germany, not so much on the end of battle but in pandering to the Austrian Corporal and his cohorts. I exchange for privilege and "honors" the of cer corps, myself included, has closed its eyes to obscene violations of the Rules of Land Warfare, the Code of Chivalry, 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 nally over, the Allies will, with right, demandaterrible 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 possible means now available, eliminating the present head of the government. The soldiers who will die now, in battle or in Russian prisoner-of warcamps, will be as much victims of the of cer corps failure to act as are the people the Nazis are slaughtering in concentraion camps.

I put it to you, Hansel, that your allegiance should be no longer to the

Luftwaffe, or the Germans Plate, but

Germany, and to the family, and to the people who have lived on our land for so long.

In this connection, your rst duty is to survive the war. Under no circumstances are you to return to Germany for any purpose until the war is over. Find now someplace where you can hide safely if you are ordered to return.

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 h 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 have them someplace where they will be safe from the

Sicherheitsdienst until the war is over.

In the chaos that will ensue in Germany when the war is nally over, 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 access to the money that IA 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 con dence that God in his mercy will allow us one day 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


Peter was at first at a loss about how to accomplish his father's directives. He could not, he was all too aware, succeed on his own. Yet whom could he go to for help? Whom could he trust? Having nowhere else to go, and remembering Cletus's pledge, Peter brought the letter to Cletus Frade.

Since neither spoke the other's language, their conversation was in Spanish.

Cletus said, "I don't know what you want me to do.

For one thing, I can't read German. So the letter won't mean a thing to me. For another, I don't know how I can do you any good. Secretly transferring money between countries is not one of my regular accomplishments."

"Forgive me for wasting your time, Senor Frade,"

Peter answered frostily.

"Don't get a corncob up your ass, Fritz," Cletus said.

"My father speaks German, and I think he would consider my debts his. And I owe you."

He saw the surprise and concern on von Wachtstein's face, and added, "I also suspect he's into this chivalry and honor shit, too."

When el Coronel Frade did in fact translate the letter for

Clete (he was doing it aloud), the tears running down his cheeks and the tightness in his throat made it hard for him to make it through to the end.

Though he, too, had to admit that he was at a personal loss about handling Peter's problem, he knew who could handle it:

"My sister's husband, Humberto Duarte, is Managing

Director of the Anglo-Argentine Bank."

"You think he will help, mi Coronel?" von Wachtstein asked.

"Of course he will," el Coronel Frade said. "And not only because he is Cletus's uncle, and Cletus's debt to you is a family debt, but also because he has believed for years all the terrible things people have been saying about your

Fuhrer and the Nazi party."

Humberto Duarte not only proved to be willing to help, but more important, he knew all the tricks necessary to transfer funds in absolute secrecy from numbered Swiss bank accounts to accounts in Argentina.

Peter's relief was, however, short-lived. His father was not the only German who had been thinking about survival should Germany lose the war.

The very next Lufthansa Condor flight from Berlin to

Buenos Aires had aboard-in addition to el Coronel Juan

Domingo Peron, who had returned to take part in the coup d'etat against President Castillo-Standartenfiihrer-SS-SD

Josef Luther Goltz.

Both Ambassador von Lutzenberger and Peter von Wacht stein thought the SS officer had been sent to find out what he could about the sinking of the Reine de la Mer, but that was not his purpose.

His orders had much more to do with the various missions associated with the soon-to-be-arriving "neutral" Spanish vessel Comerciante del Oceano Pacifico-the repatriation of the interned officers from the GrafSpee; the replacement of the Reine de la Mer as a replenishment vessel for U-boats; and finally-and most secretly-the transfer of funds to be used for the implementing of Operation Phoenix.

Standartenflihrer Goltz presented this information to

Ambassador von Lutzenberger and his old friend First Sec retary Anton von Gradny-Sawz.

Ambassador von Lutzenberger, recognizing the threat

Operation Phoenix posed to what he and Peter were doing with the von Wachtstein money-and other money entrusted to him by other friends-decided that Peter had to know, and told him everything.

The next day, Peter had flown Standartenflihrer Goltz to

Montevideo in the Fieseler Storch, where Goltz met with

Sfurmbannfiinrer Werner von Tresmarck, the SS-SD man at the German Embassy in Uruguay.

Von Tresmarck's wife, whom Peter had known in Berlin, presumed he knew what was going on and revealed to him the source of the Operation Phoenix funds available in

Uruguay. It came from the families and friends of Jews in concentration camps in Germany. For a price, the SS would arrange for the release of Jews from the death camps and their travel to Uruguay and Argentina.

Peter had then been faced with another moral decision.

On one hand, his stomach turned at yet another proof of the incredible moral bankruptcy of the Nazi hierarchy generally and the SS specifically.

On the other, to reveal this state secret, and what he knew about the Oceano Pacifico, to a man he knew was an agent of the OSS was not only treason, pure and simple, but also personally painful.

The Kapitanleutnant of one of the submarines with empty fuel tanks in the South Atlantic was a close friend from college days, a wholly decent human being. Furthermore, if his treason ever became known, it would mean not only not being able to carry out the responsibility his father had given him to care for the people who depended on the von Wacht steins, but would also be tantamount to signing an execution order for his father.


In the end, Cletus Frade gave him his word that he would never reveal the source of his information, and so Peter told him. Frade then told Peter that one of his agents, David

Ettinger, a Jewish refugee from Nazi Germany, had heard the stories about the ransoming of Jews from concentration camps, and had been investigating them. Ettinger's obscenely mutilated corpse had been found a few days before, on the beach at Carrasco, outside Montevideo. The severed penis in Ettinger's mouth, Clete said, had been a message to the Jews who knew about the ransoming operation.

Standartenfiihrer Goltz-who had not himself told Peter any more than he felt he absolutely had to know about Oper ation Phoenix-had been forced to press him into service when the Oceano Pacifico arrived in Argentina.

Peter had managed to get word to Cletus Frade about where and when the "special cargo" would be unloaded, and

Operation Phoenix and the other missions of the Oceano

Pacifico had been aborted on the beach at Puerto Magdalena.

Afterward, there was no reason, Peter knew, for anyone to suspect that he was in any way responsible for tipping the

OSS off about the attempted landing operation, or that he was now a traitor to the oath he had taken, pledging loyalty unto death to the person of the Fiihrer of the German people,

Adolf Hitler.

But he knew that did not mean he was not under suspicion.

"Would you like to freshen up before coming to the table?"

Senorita Alicia de Carzino-Cormano asked.

"Yes, thank you, I really would," Major von Wachtstein replied, exhibiting greasy hands as proof of the necessity.

"You take dear Peter to our room, Alicia," Senora Frade de Duarte ordered. "And I will see that there is a place set for him."

"Of course," Alicia said.

Senora Duarte laid her fingers on Peter's cheek. "Don't dally, dear," she said, and then, motioning her husband to follow her, she started to walk to the main house.

Humberto nodded, then walked after his wife.


"Give me a minute to take this off," Peter said as he pulled down the zipper of his gray flying suit and started to shrug out of it. Beneath it, he still wore the suit Gradny-Sawz had admired.

"I was afraid for a moment," Alicia said, "that she was going to take you to her room to wash your hands, and send me to make a place for you at lunch."

He smiled at her.

He freed his legs from the flying suit and hung it on the wing support. Then he followed Alicia into the house, where she led him not to the bedroom where the Duartes were staying, but to her own. The moment they were inside, she locked the door and threw herself into his arms.

"When you came by plane, I was afraid you'd been ordered to Germany," she said.

"No," he said. "So far, there's been no word from Berlin."

"I'm so frightened for you, Peter," she said.

That makes two of us.

"There's nothing to be frightened about, precious," he said, stroking her hair.

Do I believe that? Or am I pissing in the wind?

He gently extricated himself from her arms.

Another thirty seconds of feeling her against me like that, and I'll carry her to her bed.

And all we need is Clete's lunatic aunt coming to look for me, and finding us in Alicia's bedroom.

"Let me wash my hands," he said.

She nodded toward her bathroom.

He went into the bathroom and washed his hands with a clear bar of glycerin soap-concluding that while it might do wonders for the complexion of a young female, it was not ideal for removing oil from hands.

She was standing by her desk when he went back into the bedroom.

"If they do order you to go to Germany," Alicia asked,

"then will you go to Brazil?"

"Baby, I don't think they're going to order me to Berlin."

"If they do!" she insisted angrily.

"If that happens, we will see what I have to do."


"Sometimes I hate you," she said.

"Baby, don't say that!"

"Why not? Right now, I mean it!"

He reached his hand to touch her face. She knocked it away, walked to the door, and unlocked it.

"They'll be wondering what's keeping you," she said.

He nodded, and started to walk past her. She stepped into his path, threw her arms around him, and kicked the door closed.

"Peter, I can't live without you!" she said against his chest.

"Ich liebe dich, meine hartz," he said, close to tears. I love you, my heart.

She pushed away far enough to look up at him.

"If I kiss you, we would never get out of my room," she said.

He kissed her forehead, gently took her hands from his arms, opened the door, and started walking down the corridor to the dining room.

[TWO]

"Over here, darling!" Senora Beatrice Frade de Duarte cried happily when she saw Peter and Alicia come into the din ing.* She was sitting immediately beside Claudia Carzino Cormano at the head of the table, and had made a place for

Peter between herself and her husband. Seated across from her was a ruddy-faced, silver-haired Irishman, Monsignor

Patrick Kelly, the Duarte family priest. Beside him was

Isabela Carzino-Cormano, Alicia's older sister, a very beau tiful, black-haired young woman of twenty-two. Beside her was a tall, handsome young Argentine Peter did not know.

He was obviously another houseguest, Isabela's, to judge by

* Among the many ways the longtime presence of the British in Argentina was mani fested was io the custom among upper-class Argentines of referring to rooms in homes by their English names. The living room, for example, was called "the living"; the dining room, "the dining"; and the foyer, or reception room, as "the reception," et cetera. the fact that they were both dressed in riding clothing.

Across from him sat Dr. Manuel Sporazzo, a middle-aged, well-dressed man whom Peter knew to be Beatrice Frade de

Duarte's psychiatrist. The empty place beside him was obvi ously Alicia's.

Peter obeyed the summons, as Alicia made her way to the place set for her.

"How nice to see you, Peter," Claudia said.

"Senora Carzino-Cormano, I again thank you for your kind invitation," Peter said, clicking his heels and bowing his head to her.

"Don't be absurd," Claudia said. "You are always wel come here, Peter."

"Buenas tardes, Senorita Isabela," Peter said, repeating the heel clicking and bowing to her, and then repeating the gesture to Monsignor Kelly and Dr. Sporazzo. "Padre, Doctor."

"How nice to see you, Major von Wachtstein," Isabela said very formally, almost coldly.

"I don't believe you know Antonio-Tony-Pellechea, do you, Peter?" Claudia said.

"I have not had the honor," Peter said, and clicked his heels and bowed his head again.

The young Argentine rose halfway from his seat and offered Peter his hand.

"I don't believe I've ever seen an airplane like yours before," Pellechea said. "What is it?"

"It's a Fieseler Storch. What we call an 'Army Coopera tion' airplane."

"My Jorge was riding in one just like it when God called him to heaven to be with Him and the Holy Angels," Beatrice announced brightly. "Isn't that so, Peter?"

Tony Pellechea looked at her in amazement. Isabela looked embarrassed.

"Yes, Ma'am," Peter said.

"Please sit down, Peter," Claudia said. "We're having a simple lomo"-filet mignon-"I hope that's all right."

"I am second to no man in my appreciation of Argentina beef," Peter said.

Claudia chuckled.


"Is that the diplomat speaking?" she asked.

"The man, Senora," Peter said.

Beatrice Frade de Duarte was not through: "Since Peter brought our Jorge home, Tony," she said, making it sound as if they had shared a taxi, "he's become almost a member of the family. Not almost-he has become family. Isn't that so,

Humberto?"

"Yes, indeed," Humberto agreed.

"You are too kind, Senora," Peter said.

Tony Pellechea smiled uncomfortably.

"And not only of our family, Tony," Beatrice went on.

"But of the Carzino-Cormano family as well. What would you say, Claudia, if I told you-judging from the way Alicia looks at him-that it looks very much to me as if Cupid has fired a second arrow from his quiver? And scored another bull's-eye?"

"I would say your imagination is running away with you again, Beatrice," Claudia said.

Unfortunately, you poor lunatic, Claudia thought, I'm afraid you 're right on the money.

"But wouldn't it be nice if that were the case-and I think I'm right, no matter what you say? Alicia and Dorotea have been friends since they were babies, and I'm sure that

Peter and Cletus could be friends, if only they had the chance."

"Mi querida," Humberto Duarte said in a desperately transparent attempt to get his wife off the subject. "Weren't you telling Tony that you were at school with his mother?"

"Yes, I was," she said. "She was right down the corridor from me at St. Teresa's. I had a room with Elisa Frondizi- now Elisa Frondizi de Galeano, of course-and your mother shared one with Carmela Burmeister-now Carmela

Burmeister de Manasaro, of course-and we were the dearest of friends, all of us."

She paused thoughtfully.

Tony Pellechea smiled uncomfortably.

Peter smiled gratefully at the maid who offered to fill his wineglass.


"Our favorite sister was Sister Maria Margareta," Beatrice resumed. "She was strict, but she was fair. You really couldn't say that about all the sisters. Sister Maria-Elena, for example…"

[THREE]

Estancict San Pedro y San Pablo

Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province

1425 1 May 1943

The Horch was parked on the red gravel on the curved drive in front of the main house. The roof was down, and the sec ond windshield, which rose behind the front seat, had been raised.

"It looks good, Clete," Martha Howell said.

"Thank you," Clete said.

"God, it's big, isn't it?" Martha added wonderingly. "It's one and a half times the size of the Caddy."

"You want to drive it?" Clete asked.

"Give me a rain check. That was an enormous lunch. The

Old Lady needs a nap."

"OK," he said.

He kissed her cheek. The gesture was somehow different, perhaps more intimate, than an Argentine cheek-kissing.

"Be careful," Martha said.

Clete walked off the veranda. Enrico, carrying his Browning shotgun, walked quickly ahead of him and opened both driver's-side doors.

"Let me drive it a little first, Marjorie," Clete said.

"OK," she said, and got in the front and slid across to the passenger side.

Clete got in beside her. Enrico waited until Beth had climbed into the rear seat, and then, after closing the driver's door, got in beside her.

"Hey, Adolf," the Old Man called, and when Clete looked at him, Cletus Howell raised his arm in the Nazi salute.

"Sieg Heil, Adolf!"

"Dad!" Martha protested, but when Clete and the girls laughed, she joined in too.

Enrico looked confused.

Clete started the engine, watched the oil-pressure gauge for a long moment, and then tapped the horn and drove off.

"That horn sounds like a bull in heat," Marjorie said.

Two minutes later, as Clete turned onto the macadam road, she said, "I thought so."

"You thought what so?"

"We're going to the radio station, aren't we?"

"Uh-huh."

"And Grandpa was right, wasn't he? That was a Nazi air plane, right?"

"Butt out, Squirt," he said.

Then he put his foot on the brake and stopped the car, pulled on the parking brake, and got out. Marjorie slid over behind the wheel.

"You think you can find it?" he asked.

"Sure," she said. "I was a Girl Scout, remember?"

He did in fact remember. Both Marjorie and Beth had been Girl Scouts. Beth had loved it; Marjorie had hated it from her first meeting. She had envisioned riding out on the prairie on horseback, pitching a tent, building a fire, and cooking supper under the stars. What the Girl Scouts wanted her to do, she had announced indignantly, was sell cookies that came from a factory.

She had absolutely no trouble driving the Horch, as enor mous as it was. Since she had been driving tractors and trucks on Big Foot Ranch from the moment her feet could reach the pedals, this should not have been surprising.

But it was. Marjorie was slight, delicate, and feminine, and looked somehow out of place at the huge wheel of the gigantic car.

And Clete thought that now that her father was dead, the responsibility for protecting her-and Beth-was now his, and he was going to have a hard time doing that when he was here and she was back in Texas.


Ten minutes later, Marjorie gestured out the windshield toward a half-acre-size clump of pine and eucalyptus directly ahead of them.

"There it is," she announced.

The clump of trees looked no different from any of the countless other clumps of trees scattered all over the gently rolling pampas. The trees had been put there as windbreaks.

And there were perhaps twenty-five similar clumps of trees scattered all over Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. They contained cattle ramps, usually, and corrals, and houses for the gauchos and their families, and what would have been called toolsheds on Big Foot Ranch. They were in essence miniature ranches, self-sufficient enough that the gauchos usually didn't have to make more than a couple of trips a month to the main buildings.

In other words, a windbreak offered ideal concealment for a shortwave radio station and its antennae.

But she was right. That was what they were looking for.

She slowed the car, and three hundred yards farther down the road found a dirt road leading off to the right. She down shifted skillfully and turned off the macadam onto it.

As they got closer to the clump of trees, the outlines of four buildings could be seen inside it.

The first person they saw as they approached the larger of the four buildings was a large, florid-faced man in his middle forties wearing the billowing black trousers, broad-sleeved white shirt, wide-brimmed hat, and leather boots of a gau cho. He was leaning on the fender of a Model A Ford coupe.

Two other automobiles were parked against the larger of the four buildings: a Model A Ford pickup truck and a

1940 Chevrolet coupe. The Chevrolet carried both the special license plates issued by the Argentine government to diplomatic personnel and an egg-shaped insignia with the letters CD.

As the gaucho walked up to them, two other men emerged from the building. Both were wearing business suits. The first was small, slim, mustachioed, and dark-skinned, with a long, thin cigar in his teeth. The other was young and mus cular, his chest straining the buttons of his shirt.


"Buenas tardes, Senorita Marjorie," the man in gaucho costume said in fluent Spanish. "Senorita Beth. Mi Mayor."

"How are you, Chief?" Clete replied in English.

"Hi, Chief," Marjorie called cheerfully.

Chief Radioman Oscar J. Schultz was carried on the rolls of the United States Navy as being on "Temporary Duty

(Indefinite Period) with OSS." He had been drafted- together with a large stock of radio room supplies, including the all-capital-letters radio room typewriter-into the OSS off the destroyer USS Alfred Thomas, DD-107, when she had called at Buenos Aires two months before. Schultz had been her chief radioman (and cryptographer). In addition to his communication skills, Schultz was fluent in Spanish (after two tours at the U.S. Navy base at Cavite, in the Philippines).

"Where did you get those wheels, honey?" the chief asked admiringly. "They're really something."

"Clete's giving it to me for my birthday present," Mar jorie said.

"The hell I am," Clete said, and got out of the car.

"Welcome again to our happy little home away from home," the small man with the cigar in his mouth said.

His name was Maxwell Ashton III, and he was carried on the rolls of the War Department as "Ashton, Maxwell HI,

Captain, Signal Corps, AUS (Detail OSS)," and on the rolls of the OSS as "Commander, OSS Western Hemisphere Team

17."


"I was about to send somebody over to the main house," he said to Clete in Spanish. "You see the Fieseler fly over?"

Spanish was Ashton's mother tongue. He was the son of a

Bostonian father and a Cuban mother, and had spent the first fourteen years of his life in Cuba, before going to the United

States to attend Saint Andrew's School in Maryland, the preparatory school alma mater of his father.

"We did, and so did my grandfather," Marjorie said.

"Swastikas and all. He gave Clete his 'I hate the OSS' speech."

"I keep forgetting you speak Spanish," Ashton said.

"Tex-Mex, anyway," Marjorie said. "But don't worry."


When he looked at her, she put both hands over her eyes, then over her mouth, and finally covered her ears.

Ashton chuckled.

"He flew pretty low over here," the muscular young man said, "But both the Chief and I were outside, and if he dropped anything, we didn't see it."

Pelosi, Anthony J., 1st Lt, Corps of Engineers, AUS, was carried on the rolls of the War Department as "Detail U.S.

State Department"; on the personnel assignment charts of the State Department "as Assistant Military Attache U.S.

Embassy, Buenos Aires"; and on the rolls of the OSS as

"Executive Officer, OSS Western Hemisphere Team 14."

Team 14 had originally consisted of Cletus Frade, Tony

Pelosi, and Staff Sergeant David Ettinger. Chief Schultz had been drafted into it. Ettinger had been murdered in Uruguay.

Ashton's Team 17 had been infiltrated into Argentina with a radar set.

"In that case, he's probably just going to Estancia Santo

Catalina to see his girlfriend," Clete said. "In any event, my uncle is there for lunch; and if he has anything for us, he'll bring it when he comes for dinner tonight."

Pelosi grunted. Ashton shook his head in agreement.

"Anything for me? Clete asked.

"Uncle Milton said to say hello," Pelosi said.

Milton Leibermann (who in fact looked like a fond uncle: he was plump, balding, and forty-nine) was accredited to the

Republic of Argentina as the Legal Attache of the United

States Embassy. It was technically a secret that he was also the special agent in charge of the Federal Bureau of Investi gation's Argentine operations.

"Tell him to keep next Saturday free for my wedding,"

Clete said.

"The Archbishop came through, huh?" Tony Pelosi asked.

"I wish you two could be there," Clete said to Ashton and the chief, "but you don't exist, and there will be a lot of

Argentine brass there. I even invited el Coronels Peron and

Martin. Or I invited Martin and Father Welner, and Claudia invited Peron."


"I don't see how you could have not invited Peron," Ash ton said.

"Et tu, Brutus?" Clete said.

"I won't be here anyhow," Ashton said.

"Oh?"

"There's one message," Ashton said, inclining his head toward the house.

"Tony, will you entertain the girls while the chief and

Ashton and I have a look at it?" Clete said.

"Yes, sir," Pelosi said.

Clete walked into the larger building, and the chief and

Ashton followed him.

In the center of the room were a sturdy table and simple chairs; two identical tables were against the walls. One of them held a communications receiver, a transmitter, and a battered Underwood typewriter. The other held an assort ment of radio technician's tools and test equipment.

An ancient safe was under this table. Sitting neatly on top of it were two thermite grenades, to be activated in case of unwanted guests. The safe contained the radio codes.

The chief knelt by the safe, worked the combination, and handed Clete a single sheet of paper.

BACARDI AT FIRST OPPORTUNITY WILL



EXFILTRATE BY ROUTE OF HIS CHOICE TO



CARIOCA REPORTING UPON ARRIVAL THEREAT TO



MILITARY ATTACHE US EMBASSY FOR FURTHER



ORDERS.



POLO WILL ASSUME COMMAND DURING BACARDI



ABSENCE.



INTEREST AT VERY HIGHEST LEVEL IN



IDENTITY OF GALAHAD AND IN ALL DETAILS



OF LINDBERGH CONTINUES.



NO ACTION REPEAT NO ACTION WILL BE TAKEN



WITH INTENT TO DISRUPT LINDBERGH WITHOUT



SPECIFIC AUTHORITY FROM AGGIE ONLY REPEAT



AGGIE ONLY.



ACKNOWLEDGE



AGGIE



URGENT



TOP SECRET LINDBERGH



DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN



FROM AGGIE



MSG NO 133 1915 GREENWICH 30 APRIL



1943



TO TEX



BACARDI



Aggie was Colonel A. F. Graham, USMCR,

Deputy Director of the Office of Strategic Services, who was a graduate of the Texas Agricultural and

Technical Institute at College Station, Texas. Tex was Major Cletus H. Frade, USMCR, whose home of record was Big Foot Ranch, Midland, Texas. Bacardi was Captain Maxwell Ashton HI, AUS, whose roots were in Cuba, known for its fine rum. Carioca was Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Polo was 1st Lieutenant Madison R.

Sawyer III, AUS, who had graduated from Yale

University, where he had been captain of the polo team; he was now Executive Officer of OSS Western

Hemisphere Team 17. Galahad was Major Freiherr

Hans-Peter von Wachtstein. Lindbergh was the code name chosen to refer to the German ransoming of concentration camp inmates.

"What do you think your orders from the attache in

Rio will be?" Clete asked.


"If God is in his heaven, there will be a letter from the War

Department telling me the war will be lost unless I return to

Bell Labs, and I will proceed there immediately."

Before entering the service, Ashton had been an engineer at the Bell Telephone Laboratories.

Chief Schultz laughed. "What it says is 'during Bacardi absence,' " he said. "To a simple old sailor like me, Captain, sir, that means you're coming back."

"Taking a man's dreams is worse than taking his life,

Schultz," Ashton pronounced solemnly. "And very, very cruel."

"What I think they're going to do is hand you a diplomatic passport and a ticket on the next Panagra flight to Buenos

Aires," Clete said.

"After, probably, the Attache works you over to find out who Galahad is," Clete.

"Who?" Ashton said.

"I'll bet that's on Donovan's agenda."

"In words of one syllable, fuck him. Don't worry, Clete."

"Max, how do you feel about Sawyer taking over your team?" Clete asked.

"Frankly, I was hoping it would annoy you more than it looks like."

"Chief, send Aggie a message saying that as senior officer present for duty, I will assume command of Team 17 while

Ashton is gone."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

"It would be easier just to not tell Sawyer. That's liable to get you in trouble," Ashton said.

"What are they going to do? Send me back to the Marine

Corps? Send the message, Chief."

"And if I refuse, will you send me back to the Navy?"

"Good try, Chief," Clete said. "Just send the message."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

"Now the question is, how do we get you to Brazil?" Clete asked.

"There's two ways," Ashton said. "The way I came in, black. Go back to Santo Tome and somehow get across the river."


"I could fly you there, in a Cub," Clete said. "First refuel at my estancia in Corrientes, and then fly you across the river."

"Hey, you're getting married next Saturday. You don't want to be in a Brazilian jail."

"What's your second way?"

"If I could get into Uruguay, I have a Uruguayan passport.

How risky would it be to rent a boat or something and get into Uruguay?"

"I could also fly you across, up by El Tigre, and put you out in a farmer's field someplace. Or, for that matter, I could fire up the Lockheed and fly to the airport in Carrasco-"

"Where, Mr. Frade?" Chief Schultz asked.

"The airport outside Montevideo," Clete said. "No one there would search that airplane."

"I'll come back to that wishful thought," Ashton said.

"Who would you get to help fly the Lockheed?"

"I flew it to Santo Tome by myself, you will recall."

"And safely only because God takes care of fools and drunks, and I qualify on both counts. Forget the Lockheed, thank you very much just the same."

"There's one other way that might work," Clete said. "Just get on the overnight steamer."

"How would I get through immigration? I'm in Argentina black, Clete."

"Black means secret. Nobody knows," Clete said.

"What?"

"Put yourself in Martin's shoes," Clete said. "He knows you're here. He knows your whole team is here. He's a good intelligence officer. Good intelligence officers don't make waves. If he arrests you, that would make big waves. If I were Martin, I would much prefer to watch you leave the country, bye, bye, gringo, with no waves."

"You really believe that?"

"I believe it, but it's your choice, Max."

Ashton thought it over for a full thirty seconds, which seemed longer.

"You really think you could fly the Lockheed to Montevideo all by your lonesome?"

"Yeah."


"When?"

"Whenever you want."

"Tomorrow? In the morning?"

"Come for breakfast, meet my family, and I'll have you in

Montevideo in time for lunch."

"What's a nice young Cuban boy like me doing in this business?" Ashton said. "You really want me to come for breakfast?"

"Absolutely. I want you to meet the rest of the family."

"I'll be there," Ashton said.

VI


[ONE]

Zoological Gardens of Buenos Aires

Plaza di Italia, Buenos Aires 1530 1 May



1943



As the blue Dodge approached the Plaza di Italia, Coronel

Bernardo Martin leaned forward and touched the shoulder of

Sargento Manuel Lascano. Martin was wearing a brown tweed sports coat, gray flannel slacks, and a yellow polo shirt; Lascano was wearing a business suit. "Drop me at the main entrance, please, Manuel, and then wait for me at the entrance on Libertador."

"Can I stop there, mi Coronel?"

"I think, Manuel, if a policeman did come to the car, and you showed him your credentials, he would understand."

"Si, Senor."

"And I can open the door myself when we stop, Manuel.

The impression we are trying to give is that we are not in the

Army."

"Si, Senor."


Manuel pulled the Dodge to the curb and Martin stepped out. He walked toward the ticket booth, but stopped first at a kiosk and bought a copy of the tabloid newspaper Clarin.

He opened it and stood for a moment looking over the paper to make sure that he was not being followed.

He was not about to do anything he wanted to hide. He wanted to know simply if he was under surveillance. General

Obregon was entirely capable of wanting to know how he spent his weekends, and he had many friends in the

Policia Federal who would be willing to do a favor for the new Director of the Bureau of Internal Security.

He saw no cars that could belong to the Policia Federal, but he waited until the traffic signal changed and the line of traffic moved off (no car had remained behind, or was moving unusually slowly). Then he folded the newspaper, tucked it under his arm, and went to the ticket window to purchase a ticket.

He walked slowly down the winding path until he came to the elephant enclosure, where several children and their parents were doling out peanuts to a pair of elephants. A somewhat ruffled middle-aged man was also there, doing the same.

"Buenas tardes, Milton," Martin said to him. "What a pleasant surprise."

"Ah, Bernardo," Milton Leibermann said, and offered both his hand and the bag of peanuts.

Martin took several peanuts and held them out to the ele phant.

"So what's new, Bernardo?" Milton Leibermann asked.

"I have a new boss," Martin said.

"Oh, really?"

"General Obregon. You know the name?"

"I've heard it. When did that happen?"

"It hasn't been announced officially yet, but that should come in the next few days."

Leibermann grunted.

"Actually, a little bird told me that he might drop by his new office, unofficially, of course, this afternoon," Martin said.

"Where no doubt he will find you with your nose to the grindstone?"

"You know, Milton, first impressions?"

"Of course."

Leibermann's Spanish was fluent, but his accent marked him as neither a Porteno (a native of Buenos Aires) nor an

Argentine. His Spanish was in fact Puerto Rican-more pre cisely, the modified Puerto Rican Spanish spoken in Spanish

Harlem.

"And I have learned something else that has not yet been made public, and which I tell you in confidence," Martin said. "The Cardinal Archbishop has granted permission for the Anglican priest… what's his name?"

"Cashley-Price?"

"… Cashley-Price to participate in the wedding of our friend Cletus Frade."

"Ah, young love!" Leibermann said. "I'm really impressed, Bernardo. I wish my budget were large enough to have someone in the Cardinal's office. I'll bet all sorts of interesting things go on there."

Martin laughed. "Actually, it's my wife's sister. And I learned that quite by accident."

"That happens to me a lot, too," Leibermann said.

"Recently, for example?"

"You do know that Mr. Graham has left Argentina?"

"I knew the day the Colonel left," Martin said.

"The Colonel?"

Martin smiled and shook his head.

"I was thinking, when I heard that our friend Cletus was going to be allowed to marry, that it would really be a shame if something happened to… what shall I say? Interrupt his newlywed bliss."

"Yes, it would."

"I don't know how much General Obregon knows about

Cletus and his friends, but I'm going to have to tell him what I know. And I have no idea what he'll decide to do about it. Or them."

"I, of course, have no idea what you're talking about."

"Of course not. I was speaking hypothetically. And, speaking hypothetically, I don't suppose you've heard any thing about his plans? That he might, for example, wish to take his bride to the United States?"

"I don't think that's very likely to happen, Bernardo."

"I was afraid of that."

"Speaking hypothetically, what is it that you know about

Cletus that you have to tell General Obregon?"

"There is a rumor that there is both a radio station and a radar station operating illegally on Estancia San Pedro y San

Pablo."

"I wonder how a rumor like that got started?"

"Who knows? But it is the sort of thing that I'm going to have to tell General Obregon, and it's the sort of thing he'll probably want to look into."

"Oh, I don't know, Bernardo. A radar station? I can't think of any reason why there would be a radar station operating out there, except perhaps to look for German submarines being supplied in Samborombon Bay, and my government has your government's assurance that has never happened."

"From what General Rawson tells me, that sort of thing will never happen under his administration."

"Well, I'm certainly glad to hear that. Neutrality is so important, isn't it?"

Martin put out his hand. "So nice to run into you like this,

Milton."

"And it's always a pleasure to see you, Bernardo," Leiber mann said. "Are you sure you won't have another peanut?"

"No, but thank you."

They smiled at each other, and then Martin walked away, more quickly now, down the winding path to the other end of the zoo, and pushed through the turnstile onto Avenida

Libertador.

Next Saturday, he thought, we will meet in Recoleta

Cemetery. And the week after that in the Cafe Colon.

He spotted the Dodge. It was parked, illegally, twenty five meters down Avenida Libertador. A sergeant of the

Corps of Mounted Police had just parked his motorcycle and was advancing on it with a look of righteous indignation on his face.


Martin stopped and took the Clarin from under his arm.

The policemen bent down to look at the driver, and a moment later straightened up, saluted, and walked back to his motorcycle. Martin waited until he had kicked it into life and ridden off before folding the newspaper again and walking up to the car. He got in the backseat.

"Any problems, Manuel?"

"No, Sir," Manuel said.

"Let's go to the office," Martin said. "With a little bit of luck, we can both go home in about an hour."

"Yes, Sir."

[TWO]

Office of the Chief, Ethical Standards Office

Bureau of Internal Security, Ministry of Defense

Edificio Libertador, Avenida Paseo Colon

Buenos Aires

1620 1 May 1943

Coronel Bemardo Martin had just finished putting his uni form on and was examining himself in the full-length mirror on the back of his private rest-room door when there was a knock at his office door.

The uniform consisted of a brown tunic, a white shirt, a black necktie, light tan gabardine riding breeches, highly polished riding boots, a leather-brimmed high-crowned uni form cap, and a Sam Browne belt. The branch of service insignia was that of cavalry. He had once been a cavalry officer, and frequently wished he still was. The colonel's rank badges on the tunic's epaulets were brand new. He had been promoted to colonel only two weeks before, and had had the good luck to pick up the uniform with the proper insignia from the officer's sales store just in time to have it ready for

General Obregon.

He hoped that good luck was an omen.

He went into his office, crossed to the door, and opened it to find Mayor Gonzalo Delgano, Argentine Army Air Service, standing there.

He motioned him into the office and closed the door. He didn't want anyone to hear their conversation.

Delgano was a short, muscular man in his early forties, and he too was in uniform. Martin saw that his insignia of rank was new, too.

"I just put this on," Martin said, indicating his uniform.

"How does it feel to be back in uniform, Gonzo?"

"Good," Delgano said, meaning it.

Delgano was also an intelligence officer, who had been working undercover for Martin, charged with keeping an eye on el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade, the power behind the GOU. Frade had hired the ostensibly just-about-to-retire

Capitan Delgano to pilot his Staggerwing Beechcraft.

The job had been personally difficult for Delgano. He liked el Coronel Frade-whom he had served under when

Frade had been deputy commander of the 2nd Cavalry Reg iment in Santo Tome. Deceiving him, spying on him, had not come easy. Yet he had done his duty.

After el Coronel Frade's assassination, he had stayed on at

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo to surveille Frade's son-not only a Yankee gringo, but worse, an agent of the

American OSS. However, Frade had learned during the rev olution that Delgano was in fact a serving intelligence officer, and that of course ended his usefulness, insofar as keeping an eye on Cletus Frade was concerned.

Since the cover story about Delgano's retirement was now useless, Martin had arranged for the first postrevolution

Daily Army Journal to announce that Captain Gonzalo Del gano had fully recovered from an unspecified illness and had been recalled to active duty in the grade of major.

Since that particular issue of the Daily Army Journal had consisted of sixteen pages of small type, most of it announcing the retirement of officers who had supported the deposed government, no one would pay much attention to an appar ently routine personnel action for a lowly captain.


"The President telephoned me yesterday to say that, on the advice of General Ramfrez and Coronel Peron, he has decided to name General Obregon as Director of BIS,"

Martin said. "He also suggested that the General might drop in for an unofficial visit. A friend told me when he planned to come. Hence, the uniform."

Martin knew that Delgano shared his opinion of General

Obregon, but neither his large dark eyes nor his face sug gested that he was surprised or disappointed.

Or anything, Martin thought with approval. Intelligence officers should be like poker players. None of their feelings should show.

"And I thought we should have a talk before you officially report for duty," Martin went on. "So I called you."

Delgano nodded and smiled. "May I say, mi Coronel, that the coronel's insignia looks very nice on your epaulets?"

"As does the mayor's insignia on yours, Mayor."

Their eyes met for a moment, and they smiled at each other.

"We are going to have to be very careful, Gonzo."

Delgano nodded. "I would like to know if some sort of deal was struck," he said. "Or whether Rawson was unwilling to resist a suggestion from Ramfrez."

"Ramfrez and Peron."

"I really thought Peron wanted the job," Delgano said.

"I think he has greater ambitions," Martin said.

Delgano nodded. "As does Ramfrez," he said.

"And the ambitions of both require their man in here,"

Martin said. "They learned from Castillo's mistake in trusting

Admiral Montoya."

"And how do they regard you? For that matter, us?"

"With a little bit of luck, they will regard us as technicians without ambition."

Delgano nodded his agreement.

"With your permission, Gonzo, I will suggest to General

Obregon that you become his personal pilot."

"I would be honored with such an assignment, mi Coro nel," Delgano said.

There was no sarcasm in Delgano's reply. Martin under stood why: Delgano was honored that he trusted him to sur veille General Obregon, thus serving Argentina.

"Thank you, Gonzo," Martin said.

"It's nothing," Delgano said.

The red telephone-one of three-on Martin's desk buzzed, and he picked it up.

"Coronel Martin," he said, listened, then said, "Muchas gracias," and hung up.

He met Delgano's eyes. "El General Obregon has just driven up downstairs," he said.

"And what do you want me to do?"

"I would rather he didn't know we're friends," Martin thought aloud. "So stay here, in the outer office. I'll try to avoid your meeting him right now, but that may not be pos sible."

Delgano nodded.

Martin walked quickly down the corridor to the bank of elevators, and was standing there when the door opened and

General de Division Manuel Federico Obregon stepped off.

He was a large, heavily built man whose dark skin and other features made it quite clear that Indian blood was in his veins. That was unusual in the Argentine officer corps, almost all of whom belonged to the upper class, if not the aristocracy. Almost by definition, that meant they were of

European stock, unmixed with Indian.

Obregon was accompanied by his aide-de-camp, a major whose features also suggested mixed blood. Martfn had seen him before but could not recall his name.

Martfn came to attention and saluted. "Coronel Martfn," he said. "A sus ordenes, mi general."

Obregon returned the salute. "You knew I was coming,

Coronel?" he asked, but it was a statement.

"I didn't know, Senor. But I am not surprised. President

Rawson telephoned to tell me of your appointment, and mentioned he thought you would come by for a quick visit to your new command."

Will it hurt for him to know I have a connection with Raw son? It can't be helped. I do. And it would come out anyway.

"You've been waiting for me on Saturday afternoon?"

"No, Sir. Actually, Sir, I came in to see if I could still fit in my uniform. I thought perhaps you might prefer that I work in uniform."

Obregon grunted noncommittally. "You know Hugo, of course?" he asked, nodding at his aide.

"Of course," Martin said. "It's good to see you, Mayor."

"And you, Sefior," the aide said.

The name came: Molina, Hugo. Class of 1934. Infantry.

"May I show you your office, mi General?"

"You're very kind, Coronel."

Martin motioned the two of them down the corridor to the double doors of the Office of the Director, Bureau of Internal

Security, where he stepped ahead of Obregon and pushed on the left door. Despite its enormity and weight, it opened effortlessly.

The Edificio Libertador had been designed and con structed under the supervision of a team of architects and engineers sent as a gesture of friendship to the Republic of

Argentina by the German Reich.

And also, Martin believed, to demonstrate German engi neering genius and efficiency. They had made their point with the Edificio Libertador. Everything was massive, impressive, and smooth-functioning, including the Seimens telephone system and the elevators. And the hinges on the massive doors.

Suboficial Mayor Jose Cortina, who had the duty, was sitting at the ornate desk ordinarily occupied by Sefiora Masa. He stood up quickly and popped to attention when he saw

Obregon.

It was obvious that Cortina did not expect to see the Gen eral. His tunic was unbuttoned, his tie was pulled down, and a half-eaten piece of chocolate cake and a coffee thermos were on the desk beside his bolstered pistol and the Thompson .45-caliber submachine gun that served almost as the insignia of whoever had the duty.

"This is Sergeant Major Cortina, General," Martin said.

"He has the duty."

"Stand at ease, Sergeant," Obregon said, and offered his hand. "I'm pleased to meet you."

"I apologize for my appearance, Sir," Cortina said.

"I don't suppose you get many visitors here on Saturday afternoon, do you?" Obregon said.

"Almost never, Sir."

"Do you suppose, Cortina, that you could find some coffee for our new director?" Martin said.

"Immediately, Sir," he said as he hastily buttoned his jacket.

Martin walked to the doors leading to the Director's office, pushed it open, and waved Obregon inside.

The windows of the large, high-ceilinged office provided a splendid view of the River Plate.

With the exception of a leather desk pad, a double pen holder, and three telephones, the large, ornately carved desk was bare.

"Will you miss this splendid office, Coronel?" Obregon asked.

"Sir? Oh. General, I knew my interim appointment was just that. I never moved in here."

"President Rawson told me he had offered you the posi tion," Obregon said.

"With all possible respect, sir, may I suggest that the offer was made in the excitement immediately following the suc cess of Outline Blue? I respectfully suggest General Rawson was carried away momentarily in the euphoria of the moment."

"Well, his-what did you say, 'euphoria'?-wasn't all bad. It got you that coronel's badge, didn't it, Martin?"

"Yes, Sir, it did."

"Let me say, Coronel, that I feel your promotion was entirely deserved, both for your contributions to the success of Outline Blue, and also-perhaps primarily-because it was deserved. General Rawson is not the only one who has told me you're a fine intelligence officer."

"The General is very kind, even if he has been misin formed."

Obregon laughed. "I'm going to have to depend on you for a good deal until I get my feet on the ground around here," he said.


"I'm entirely at your service, mi General."

"Is there anything- Let me rephrase: What, in your judg ment, Coronel, is the immediate pressing problem BIS faces?"

/ should have anticipated that question, and I didn 't.

"Senor, I can't speak for the entire BIS."

"The President said, as far as he's concerned, you're the only man here who really knows what he's doing," Obregon said.

"I'm sorry the President feels that way, mi General. There are a number of very competent officers here."

"Answer the question, please, Coronel."

"Yes, Sir. As far as Ethical Standards, which is my respon sibility, is concerned, I would say our priority is to make sure that the officer corps poses no threat to President Rawson and the government. I know of no problem with the serving officer corps, and those officers who were retired when the new government took office will remain under surveillance."

"Including el Almirante Montoya?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Do you think he poses a problem?"

"No, Sir."

"What is the major problem facing BIS as a whole, in your judgment?"

"The violation of Argentine sovereignty by the belligerent powers, Sir."

"Could you be more specific?"

"The major problem is the Americans and the Germans,

Sir, in my judgment."

"Do you believe the Germans were responsible for the assassination of el Coronel Frade?"

"Yes, Sir."

"El Coronel Peron does not agree with that conclusion."

"Then I think Coronel Per6n is not adequately informed of the circumstances, Sir."

"One of the first things I want to do is have a look at your file about that."

"I can get it for you now, Senor, if you wish."


"Not right now, thank you. But it is available?"

"Yes, Sir, it is."

"And presumably there is a file about the alleged smug gling attempt by the Germans at Puerto Magdalena?"

"Yes, Sir. But there's not much concrete in it."

"I've heard a story that two of the three German officers on the beach were killed. Have you heard that?"

"Yes, Sir, and I believe it to be true."

"And who do you think killed them?"

"I have an opinion, Senor, but no proof."

"In your opinion, then, who killed them?"

"I believe they were killed at the direction of el Coronel

Frade's son, Senor. Cletus Frade."

"Who is an agent of the American OSS?"

"Yes, Sir. I believe that to be true."

"The senior OSS man in Argentina?"

"I'm not sure about that, Sir. The senior OSS man may be the Military Attache at the U.S. Embassy."

"The President is very taken with young Frade. He was apparently very useful to him during the execution of Outline

Blue. Are you familiar with that?"

"Yes, Sir."

"And he is not only an Argentine citizen, but el Coronel

Peron's godson, which poses certain problems in his regard, does it not?"

"Yes, Sir. Many problems."

"I'd like to hear what you think those problems are,

Coronel."

Martin had mixed feelings about Cletus Frade.

In other circumstances, he knew they could have been friends. He liked him personally and admired him profes sionally. One of the very few errors he had made in judging opponents was to conclude that Frade was an amateur intel ligence officer, who could easily be controlled by a profes sional such as himself. Frade had quickly shown him that he had a natural flair for the clandestine.

Unfortunately, friendship was obviously impossible under the circumstances. Inevitably-and sooner rather than later-Frade was going to become embroiled with the Ger mans in something that might not be in Argentina's best interests.

"May I speak freely, mi General?" Martin asked.

"I expect you to, Coronel."

"There are two types of intelligence agents, Sir. The first kind is sent into a country by a foreign power. His activities are by definition espionage, and can be dealt with in that reference.

"The second is a citizen who is employed by a foreign power to conduct activities against his native country. That is considered treason and can be dealt with in that reference.

"Young Frade falls somewhere between the two. He is an

Argentine citizen by birth. He is the great-grandson of General

Pueyrredon. He is the son of a prominent Argentine who, had he not been assassinated, most likely would have become President of Argentina. And as you point out, he is the godson of el Coronel Peron, another prominent Argentine.

And, finally, as you pointed out, Sefior, he rendered considerable service to Argentina during the execution of

Outline Blue.

"At the same time, he is a serving officer of the United

States Corps of Marines. After distinguished service as a pilot in the Pacific, he was recruited by the OSS to come down here-I am sure because of his father.

"Under the Constitution, which the new government has promised to obey in every detail, a citizen may not be deported. That leaves the alternatives of arresting him and trying him for treason, or eliminating him. I respectfully suggest, Sefior, that the government would need clear and convincing proof that Mayor Frade's actions seriously dam aged Argentina before they brought him to trial for treason, and I confess, Sir, that I have nothing-"

"No proof that he was responsible for the assassinations of the Germans, you mean?"

"I have no proof of that, Sir. But even if I did, I respect fully suggest that no jury, much less a military court-martial, would convict Frade for avenging the assassination of his father."

"So how would you suggest we deal with the problem,

Coronel?" Obregon asked.

"Senor, I have no suggestions to make. Frankly, I am glad that the responsibility for the decision is not mine."

General Obregon looked at Martin for a long time before he spoke. "Tell me about elimination, Martin," he said finally. "Presumably that's a last resort?"

"If Senor Frade were to be killed in an automobile acci dent, Senor, there would be demands for a full and impartial investigation from many quarters. Including, Senor, I would suggest, the office of the President."

"As well as from el Coronel Peron," Obregon said. "So elimination is not really an option, is it?"

"I would recommend against it, Sir."

"Presumably, you have him under surveillance?"

"Of course, Sir."

"Have you met him?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I saw him for no more than thirty seconds at Coronel

Frade's funeral. But Coronel Peron has arranged to have me invited to his wedding. Maybe there will be an opportunity then."

"Yes, Sir."

General Obregon put his hands behind his back and paced back and forth to the window twice. Then he smiled at

Martin.

"Thank you so much, Coronel, for the briefing. I won't officially be taking up the directorship for several days. But if anything happens, anything you feel should come to my attention, please get in touch immediately."

"Si, Senor."

"And when I do come in, please have the files I asked for ready."

"Si, Senor."

Obregon put out his hand. "I look forward to working with you, Coronel," he said. Then he reclaimed his hand and came to attention.

Martin realized he was waiting to be saluted. He did so.

Obregon returned it, gestured to Mayor Molina to open the door, and then marched out of the room.


[THREE]

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province

1605 1 May 1943

The Lockheed Lodestar was a fourteen-passenger transport aircraft slightly smaller, but faster, than the twenty-one passenger Douglas DC-3. It had a takeoff weight of 17,500 pounds and a 69-foot wingspan; and it was powered by two

1,200-horsepower Wright Cyclone engines, which gave it a top speed of 259 mph over a range of 1,800 miles.

Cletus Frade knelt by the left undercarriage of his Lock heed Lodestar (for it was his, having been his father's) and studied the wheel, the tire, the brakes, the piston, and even the cavity in the wing into which the landing gear would retract, for signs of damage and hydraulic leaks, and other indications of potential malfunction.

The trouble, he thought, is that I don't have a clue what

I'm looking for. Or, for that matter, at. The only thing I know for sure is that this is a great big sonofabitch, and the people who designed it were perfectly justified in deciding that it takes two people to fly it.

On the other hand, you are a Marine aviator, complete with wings of gold, right? And you already have flown this big sonofabitch all by yourself three times-no, more than three times: From Porto Alegre to Santo Tome. From Santo

Tome to the military field at Posadas. From Posadas here.

From here to the field at Campo de Mayo. And from there back here. That's five times, right?

That's five successful takeoffs and five good landings-a good landing being defined as any landing you can walk away from-right? So there is no reason you can't do it again, right?

Wrong.

What you know you should do, pal, is tell Ashton you 've changed your mind, and what you 're going to do is fly him to

Uruguay in one of the Piper Cubs and land him in some farmer's pasture. That you know how to do.

He ducked under the fuselage and examined the right landing gear and its well.

He had his head in the wheel well when someone spoke to him.

"May I be of some help, Senor Frade?"

There was a man standing by the engine. It took Clete a moment to remember his name: Benito Letieri. He was an aircraft mechanic, charged with maintaining the Cubs and, before Clete had put it into Samborombon Bay, the Beech

Staggerwing.

Clete also had no doubt that even if Letieri wasn't actually one of Coronel Martin's BIS agents, he reported to the BIS whatever Clete did with the airplanes.

It was a moot point. There was no way he could fly to

Uruguay without Martin hearing about it. It didn't even matter if Martin learned after the fact that Ashton had been aboard the Lodestar when he took off. He didn't think the

Argentine Army Air Corps would try to shoot him down.

For that matter, it was damned unlikely that the obsolete fighters of the Argentine Army Air Corps-Seversky P-35s, with a top speed of 275 mph-could be scrambled in time to catch up with the Lodestar to shoot him down.

"Well, I want to run the engines up, Benito," Clete said.

"And I thought I'd give it a little test hop. Would you like to go along?"

"Si, Senor. Thank you."

"Get somebody to roll a fire extinguisher out here, and then come on board."

"Si, Senor."

Clete looked around until he found Enrico Rodriguez.

"You want to go for a little ride, Enrico?"


"Si, Senor Clete," Enrico said with absolutely no enthusi asm.

The Dash One-Pilot's Operating Manual for Lockheed

Model US-Series Aircraft-was where he had left it, on the shelf under the windshield in the cockpit.

He sat down in the pilot's seat and read the STARTING PROCEDURE and TAKEOFF PROCEDURE and LANDING PROCEDURE sections very carefully.

Benito came into the cockpit. Clete looked out the side window and saw that a wheel-mounted fire extinguisher had been rolled into place, and two men were prepared to man it.

He wondered if there was an auxiliary power unit around someplace to start the engines in case the batteries were dead, or whether they would have to recharge them.

He motioned to Benito to get into the copilot's seat, then fastened his harness, signaled to Benito to do the same, and then showed him the levers that controlled the landing gear and the flaps.

"When I tell you 'Gear up,' you pull that up. And when the green light comes on, you tell me, 'Gear up.' If the red light comes on, you tell me that. Got it?"

"Si, Senor."

"And when I tell you, 'Flaps up,' you set that lever to zero. When the needles match-see?-you tell me that, too.

Got it?"

"Si, Senor."

Clete reached up and threw the MASTER BUSS switch.

He looked out the window and signaled to the men with the extinguisher that he wanted the wheel chocks pulled, and when one of them went to remove them, signaled that he was about to wind it up.

He moved the carburetor control to FULL RICH, advanced the throttle of the right engine just a tad, and pressed the

ENGINE ONE START Switch.

For a moment, from the labored way it was grinding, it looked as if he was going to have to worry right now about how to get the batteries recharged, but then the engine splut tered, gave out a cloud of blue smoke, and caught. It quickly smoothed out, and he started the right engine.

As the needles began to move into the green, he released the brake and moved onto the runway. The windsock told him he was going to have to taxi all the way to the far end of the runway, but it was pointing parallel to the runway, which meant he wouldn't have to worry about crosswinds.

At the end of the runway he turned the plane around, checked the magnetos, set twenty degrees of flap, saw all the needles were in the green, and reached up and advanced the throttles. The plane began to move, very slowly at first. Then it began to pick up speed.

As he approached takeoff velocity, he eased the nose downward to raise the tail wheel. As the airspeed indicator showed takeoff velocity, the Lodestar began to take off by itself. The rumbling of the undercarriage suddenly stopped.

He was flying.

"Gear up," he ordered, and then, a moment later, "Zero flaps."

"Green light, zero flaps," Benito reported.

Clete smiled at him.

That wasn't too bad, pal, he thought as he put the airplane into a shallow climb. And then he remembered what his uncle Jim, who had taught him to fly long before he went through Pensacola, had told him over and over: "Just when everything seems to be going fine, everything will go wrong."

His later experiences as an aviator had given him many examples of how absolutely true that was.

He paid very close attention to what he was doing until he had reached 5,000 feet and trimmed it up and put it on autopilot, on a course that would take him over Estancia

Santo Catalina. He wanted to see if the Feiseler Storch was still on the airstrip there.

It was, which meant that Peter was probably just visiting

Alicia Carzino-Cormano for the weekend.

The Feiseler made Clete a little uncomfortable. It was a hell of an airplane just to direct artillery fire and cart people around. The Americans used Piper Cubs and other low powered puddle jumpers for the same missions. The Storch obviously cost a lot more, in terms of money, time, and materiel, to build than it cost to build a Piper Cub.

It suggested to him that the Germans were a hell of lot better prepared to wage a war than the United States was. He had seen how ill-prepared the Americans had been on

Guadalcanal, where the head stamps on some of the.30'.06 cartridges showed they had been manufactured for the First

World War, as were many of the weapons they were fired from.

Was it possible the Germans could win the war? That didn't seem likely, but it was damned sure it was going to last a long time.

On the other hand, it seemed pretty clear that American industry was shifting into second gear as far as war production was concerned. The Lodestar seemed to be proof of that.

The books showed that it was brand new when they shipped it to Brazil.

Does that mean we 're making enough airplanes that the

President can pass them out as presents to people he's trying to impress? Or was sending the Lodestar down here one more stupid thing the OSS set up, and did, even though it meant taking this airplane away from somebody who could really use it?

He changed course for the radar installation by using the autopilot, rather than by taking over manual control of the

Lodestar. For one thing, it was self-educational, and for another he wanted to see how-or if-he could do so.

The Lodestar's autopilot system dutifully took him pre cisely where he wanted to go, to the high ground overlooking

Samborombon Bay where he knew the radar installation was.

He could not, however, see it.

Polo obviously isn 't the complete Yankee Yalie asshole he at first seemed. He's done a damned good job camouflaging the position, using fishing nets and grass from the pampas.

Clete noticed that Benito not only seemed to know where the radar station was but seemed fascinated with what could be seen (or not seen) when they got close.

That wasn't important. Colonel Martin certainly knew where it was, and with that in mind, there were thermite grenades and cans of gasoline in place, ready to be set off the moment it was clear that the Argentines were coming to have a look at it.

If Martin decides to do something about the radar sta tion, am I going to have time to burn the place down and get the team out of the country? Or are they going to find themselves in the military prison at Campo de Mayo charged with espionage? Or am I going to be in the pokey with them?

He flew out over the Bay for five minutes, and then, again using the autopilot, headed the Lodestar back to Estancia

San Pedro y San Pablo.

When he got there, he devoted his full attention to getting what he now thought of, almost fondly, as "the great big sonofabitch" back on the ground in one piece. It was less trouble than he expected.

As he approached the hangar, he saw that Uncle Hum berto was waiting for him.

Does that mean he's got a message from Peter?

He waved at him from the cockpit window, then went through the SHUT DOWN procedure, checking what he had done afterward with the Dash One.

"Benito," he asked, turning to look at him. "You know how to top off the tanks and check the oil, right?"

"Si, Senor. You're going to use the airplane again soon?"

Yeah, I'm going to exfiltrate an OSS agent into Uruguay right after breakfast in the morning. Make sure you tell el

Coronel Martin.

"I was taught that if you keep the tanks topped off, it reduces the chances of condensation in the gasoline," Clete said.

"Yes, of course, Senor," Benito said. "I'll see to it right away."

Clete unstrapped himself and made his way through the passenger compartment. Enrico was still firmly strapped to his seat.

"You can unstrap yourself now, Enrico. This Marine has safely landed and the situation is well in hand."

Enrico looked at him without comprehension but began to unbuckle his belt.

Clete went to the door at the rear of the cabin, opened it, and climbed out of the Lodestar.

He offered his hand to Humberto, who ignored it, grasped his arms, and kissed Clete's cheek.

Did they get that from the French? Their men are always kissing each other. Christ, French generals kiss French

PFCs when they hand out the "No Venereal Disease in Six

Months " medals.

Or is that a standard European custom?

"I didn't expect you until a little later, Humberto," Clete said, claiming and firmly shaking his uncle's hand. "Did you see Peter?"

"He said to give you his regards," Humberto said. "He went riding with Alicia, Isabela, and Isabela's friend."

"Really?"

"His name is Antonio-they call him 'Tony'-Pellechea.

Your aunt Beatrice invited him and his parents to your wed ding," Humberto announced.

Clete's face showed his reaction.

"Beatrice and Tony's mother were at St. Teresa's together,"

Humberto said. "And Beatrice is, of course…"

As nutty as a fruitcake, you poor bastard.

"… Beatrice."

"No problem," Clete said. "The more the merrier. But what happened to that 'small family and closest friends only' wedding I heard about? God, even Coronel Peron is coming."

"Claudia told me about that. He's your godfather; he thinks of himself as family. Be grateful for that."

Clete decided not to debate the point.

"What were you doing with the airplane?" Humberto asked as they started to walk toward the house.


"I wanted to make sure it worked," Clete said. "And I wanted to stay what we call 'current.' "

"What does that mean?"

"I'm drawing flight pay. Or at least I think I am; I haven't been paid in months…"

"I don't think I understand."

"The Marine Corps pays pilots extra for flying. To qualify for it, you have to fly at least four hours a month."

"You don't need money," Humberto said.

"Uncle Humberto, I'm surprised at you. You, of all people, a banker, must certainly know there is no such thing as too much money!"

Uncle Humberto laughed dutifully. Then he put his hand on Cletus's arm and, when Cletus looked at him in surprise, met his eyes. "What were you really doing with the airplane,

Cletus?" he asked. "Or what are you planning to do with it?"

"You don't really want to know, in case someone asks you about it."

"What, Cletus?"

"I'm going to fly to Montevideo in the morning."

"Why?"

"Captain Ashton has been ordered to Rio de Janeiro. Me taking him out of the country in the Lodestar seems to me to be the best way to do that. Once he's in Uruguay, no prob lem. He has a Uruguayan passport. Getting him out of

Argentina is the problem."

"Am I allowed to ask why he's going to Rio?"

"I think when he gets there they're going to hand him a diplomatic passport and put him on the next plane back to

Buenos Aires."

"So all you have to do is get him to Uruguay? You won't have to bring him back?"

"When he comes back, he'll be legal."

"And you are just going to illegally-that is, without going through customs and immigration-just going to fly to

Montevideo?"

"Another option would be to fly him across the Rio Plate in one of the Cubs and put him out in some farmer's field, but I think the Lodestar makes more sense. If I dumped the

Cub landing it, that would be kind of hard to explain."

"'Dumped the Cub'?"

"Crashed it."

"Yes, it would. You are planning to land at Carrasco?"

Clete nodded.

"And what about customs and immigration?"

"Don't I have an estancia over there someplace?"

"You have a small estancia and a large one, and you have a summer house near Puente del Este."

"And did my father ever fly the Beech to Uruguay?"

"The Staggerwing? Yes, he did. Often."

"And did he always cross all the /'s and dot all the Fs for immigration and customs, or did he just go?"

Humberto's shrug answered the question. "I see your thinking. You think that because your name…"

"… is Frade, I can get away with a lot in Argentina, and presumably in Uruguay, too."

"And if that doesn't work?"

"I am hoping that my uncle Humberto will have enough influence to get me out of a Uruguayan jail."

Humberto smiled at him and shook his head. "There is another rule among bankers," he said. "And that is never to dip into capital unless you absolutely have to."

"Which means what?"

"When we get to the house, I will try to get through to

Uruguay on the telephone," he said. "I will have at least one of your estancia managers, and the Managing Director of the

Bank of the Rio Plate, waiting to greet us at Carrasco when we land."

"When 'we' land?"

"When we land," Humberto said.

"Humberto, I don't want you involved in this."

"It would be best if the officials at El Palomar didn't know we were coming," Humberto went on, ignoring him. "So just before we take off from here, the telephone line will go out, and stay out-how long will it take us to fly to El Palo mar, go through customs and immigration, and take off again?"


"You're not going anywhere with me," Cletus said flatly.

"This is none of your business."

"We have had this discussion before, Cletus," Humberto said. "God in his wisdom has taken your father and my son, and given us each other. In my eyes, you are my son, and whatever you do is my business."

"Oh, Jesus, Humberto!"

"How long will it take us to fly to El Palomar?"

"Thirty minutes. Maybe a little less."

"And we'd best plan another thirty minutes to clear cus toms and immigration-they won't know we're coming, of course, which may cause a slight delay. So the telephone line should go down for at least an hour." Humberto looked at

Enrico. "You can arrange for that, can't you, Enrico?"

"Si, Senor Humberto."

"What time are we leaving?" Humberto asked.

"I invited Ashton for breakfast. Right after breakfast."

"If we have an early breakfast-say, at nine-thirty-we could leave at eleven."

Clete shrugged.

"Have the phone line go out the minute we leave the house, Enrico," Humberto ordered. "And have it stay out for an hour and a half."

"Si, Senor Humberto."

"And now, Cletus, I suggest we go to the house and rescue your aunt Martha from your aunt Beatrice."


[FOUR]

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province

2230 1 May 1943

Dinner, having been served early, was over. But, Clete thought unkindly, Senora Beatrice Frade de Duarte had a captive audience, and was obviously determined to make the most of that opportunity. The way she was going, they might still be here when the sun came up.


Only the Old Man had escaped, rescued by Father Welner, who announced as dessert was being served that he wanted to have a look at the Chapel of Our Lady of the Miracles, and perhaps Mr. Howell would like to accompany him?

The Old Man had jumped at the chance, and Clete was about to jump to his feet, too, when he saw the don't you dare! look on Martha's face.

Beatrice's memory had not been at all impaired by her psychological problems. She was now describing in excruci ating detail his cousin Jorge's twelfth birthday party. She remembered who was there (children and parents), and the menu-including the brand of ice cream served, and that it had come from a sweets store that sadly was no longer in business, the wife of the proprietor having been called to heaven and the widower having turned to drink.

There was a sudden silence, and Clete looked around the dining room to see that Beatrice had interrupted herself to glower at Senora Lopez; the housekeeper had had the effrontery to enter the room while she was talking.

"Yes, Maria?" Beatrice asked.

"Excuse me, Senora, but there is a telephone call for

Senor Duarte."

Humberto rose from the table.

Here's your chance, Martha. Yawn. Say you 've had a long day and just can't seem to stay awake. Get us out of here!

"Don't be too long, dear," Beatrice called after him. "You know how I dislike having business intrude on family." She looked around the table. "Now, where was I?"

You were telling us about the ice-cream guy who hit the bottle when his wife died.

Beatrice remembered, and picked up where she had been when Humberto's business had had the effrontery to intrude on family.

Humberto was gone no longer than three minutes. "Caris sima," he said. "Something has come up in Uruguay. I have to go there tomorrow."

"Can't you send someone else?"

"No, I have to deal with this myself, Carissima. Cletus, I wondered is there any way you could fly me to Montevi deo?"

"Absolutely," Clete said. "When would you like to go?"

"As soon as I can. Perhaps right after breakfast?"

"Sure."

"We may have to spend the night," Humberto added.

From the look on Martha's face, she smelled a rat, but

Beatrice didn't. "Well, you'd only be in the way here," she announced. "Weddings are women's business, wouldn't you agree, dear Martha?"

"Absolutely," Martha said.

"What we'll do, as soon as the men leave, is drive over to

Estancia Santo Catalina and discuss the whole thing with

Claudia," Beatrice announced.

Martha smiled somewhat reluctantly.

Clete said, "Excuse me, please," stood up, and walked out of the dining room.

Martha gave him a look that was only partially questioning and mostly of disapproval, and she followed him with her eyes.

When he was in the corridor, out of sight of Beatrice, he turned and made a signal to Martha to come into the corri dor. She shook her head, and he signaled again, this time with both hands.

Martha shrugged, excused herself, and came into the cor ridor. "What?"

"Martha, you don't have to put up with her lunacy. Have a headache. Or just don't go."

She looked at him. "I don't know whether you get it from the Old Man or your father," she said. "But there's a cruel streak in you, Clete, and I don't like it."

"What?"

"You planned this unexpected business trip, and don't tell me you didn't. You took that airplane up this afternoon, to make sure it would be ready, and you were oh-so-willing to fly Humberto to Uruguay when he asked."

"OK. You're right. But what's this 'cruel' business?"

"That poor woman loves you. She sees her son in you. I could damned well be in her shoes. I almost was when your uncle Jim died. And if you hadn't come back from the

Pacific…"

"I'm not going to Uruguay to get away from her, if that's what you're driving at. This is business."

Her eyes lit up. "What kind of business?"

"You don't want to know."

"Yes, I do. And Humberto is involved in that, too?"

"In the morning, I'm going to take one of the men with me-he's a Cuban named Max Ashton."

"That's a strange name for a Cuban."

"His father was American. You'll see him at breakfast. I have to get him out of the country without passing through immigration."

"You mean he's in Argentina illegally."

"Yeah."

"And you're involving Humberto in that?"

"He insists. And it's not really dangerous. Ashton has a

Uruguayan passport. Humberto just wants to be very careful.

He figures if he's with me, fewer questions-actually no questions-will be asked. There's two estancias over there that now belong to me, and he's going to have their man agers meet us at the airport. And there will be somebody from a bank. All we have to do is land and put Max in a taxi."

"Your conscience is clear involving Humberto?"

"Yeah, it's clear. I'm an OSS agent, remember? And

Humberto invited himself in, over my objections."

"Oh, Clete, I hate all of this OSS business!"

"It would be easier on me if you didn't know about it, but you asked."

"Thank you ever so much, you bah-stud," a British accented voice called, "for calling me to tell me the good news."

Martha and Clete looked down the corridor.

Sefiorita Dorotea Mallin was walking down the corridor toward them.

She was a tall, lithe young woman with shoulder-length blond hair. Cletus Frade was not the only one who thought she was very beautiful.

Martha smiled, and shook her head. "You didn't call her?"

He shook his head, "no."

"You're about as romantic as your uncle Jim."

"You I kiss," Dorotea announced, kissing Martha. "Him, I may never kiss again."

"I'm on your side, Dorotea, honey," Martha said. "I'd make him pay."

"Oh, he will," Dorotea said. "Tomorrow, my beloved, no matter what you had planned to do, you will participate in the arrangements for the wedding. Mother's at Estancia

Santo Catalina, and Claudia has asked everybody for lunch to discuss the details. You will sit, smiling bravely, through every bloody boring minute of it."

'Tomorrow morning, Humberto and I are going to

Uruguay," Clete said.

"Were going to Uruguay," Dorotea said.

"Are going to Uruguay," Clete said.

Dorotea met his eyes. "You sound as if it's important," she said.

"It is."

"Then I'm going with you," she said. "I really didn't want to be at that luncheon anyway."

"You're not going with us."

"Hah!"

"Let's go into the dining room," Martha said. "You've had dinner, Dorotea?"

"Yes, but I'll have some dessert. I'm getting fat anyway."

Without really being conscious of it, Clete looked at

Dorotea's stomach. God, my baby is in there! He saw on

Martha's face that she had seen him looking.

Dorotea turned and walked into the dining room. She kissed Beatrice first, then Beth and Marjorie, who seemed really glad to see her, said a polite hello to Dr. Sporazzo,

Beatrice's psychiatrist, then went to Humberto and kissed him.

"What a pleasant surprise!" Humberto said.


"I'm going to Uruguay with you tomorrow," Dorotea announced.

"No, you're not," Clete said.

"What a wonderful idea!" Beatrice proclaimed. "Beth and

Marjorie have never been to Montevideo, and Dorotea can show it to them while Humberto and Cletus are doing their business."

Clete looked at Humberto, who with a little luck would have some clever idea to stop Dorotea's-and now Beat rice's-impossible idea right here and now.

"Why not, Cletus?" Humberto asked. "There's plenty of room in the airplane."

"Is it safe, Humberto?" Martha asked without thinking.

"Clete, please?" Beth asked. "I'd love to see Montevideo."

"It's settled," Dorotea announced. "You're outvoted, dar ling."

"I think it's a very good idea," Humberto said.

Humberto's not a lunatic, Clete decided. If he thought there was any chance of trouble, he would have squashed the idea right away. What he's probably thinking is that having three young women on the airplane will make us look even more innocent.

Only an idiot would involve his sisters and his fiancee in exfiltrating an OSS agent, right?

Doesn't that make me an idiot?

Clete looked at Martha, who shrugged.

"OK, I give up," he said.

"You'd better get used to that, darling," Dorotea said.

"Your days of freedom are numbered."

He smiled at her.

Thirty minutes later, after Dorotea had eaten a flan covered with dulce de leche, a sweet, chocolatelike substance made by boiling milk for hours, she kissed Clete chastely on the cheek, and marched off with Beth and Marjorie down a cor ridor in the right wing of the sprawling house to her guest room.

Twenty minutes after that, she came through the French doors of the master bedroom, wearing a dressing gown.


"I'm surprised you didn't go to sleep," she greeted him,

"since I now know how little you care about me."

"Father Welner told me he'd told your father; I figured your father would tell you."

"You should have told me, in a voice bright with joy, excitement, and enthusiasm."

"I'm sorry."

She walked to the side of the bed. "As a good Christian girl, it is my duty to forgive," she said. "I forgive you!"

"Oh, thank you, thank you!"

She unfastened the dressing gown and let it slip off her shoulders onto the floor, revealing that the dressing gown had been all she had on.

"Jesus Christ, you're beautiful!" Clete said.

She smiled, and put her fingers onto her stomach. "I think it's getting bigger," she said. "What do you think?"

"I think you have a very attractive belly."

"Wait until later, when I'm swollen like a watermelon.

You won't want to look at me."

"Yes, I will."

"You're saying that now," she said.

"I just wish this goddamn wedding was over," he said.

"Me, too."

"Are you going to get in bed, or just stand there in your birthday suit?"

"If I lie down, you know what's going to happen."

"I was hoping that's why you sneaked over here."

"I want to talk first."

"About what?"

"For example, are you going to tell me why you didn't want me to go to Uruguay?"

"Honey, I don't want you involved in this sort of thing."

"That's what I want to talk about."

"Huh?"

"I'm cold," she said, and got in bed with him. "Don't touch, me, Cletus. I'm not through."

"How long is this going to take?"

"Until you understand how I feel," she said. "And, of course, agree that I'm right."


"How you feel and are right about what?"

"For better or worse, in sickness and in health, until death do us part," she said. "This bloody war is worse, obviously.

And we're going to have serious trouble unless you under stand we have to share the worse, too."

"We're not married yet."

"Except for the little detail of the ceremony itself, we are," she paused, and then looked at him. "Damn you, don't you feel that way?"

"I really love you, Dorotea. That's why I don't want you involved in…"

"You being an OSS agent?

"Yeah."

"But I want to be. I insist that I be."

"For Christ's sake, why?"

"For someone as smart as you are, you are sometimes really stupid," she said.

"Is that so?"

"I want to share your life, Cletus. That means what you do, what you're going to do. I want to help."

"How the hell could you help? For Christ's sake, you're carrying our baby! I don't want you in a cell someplace. Or worse."

"And I don't want to stand around not knowing what's going on, wondering what in the bloody hell you're up to, wondering if I couldn't help if only you'd let me. In that way, I realized, I'm lucky."

What the hell does she mean by that?

"I don't understand that."

"I know a dozen girls, women, here, whose husbands, whose boyfriends, got on ships and went wherever the

Royal Navy or the RAF or whatever sent them. All they get is the odd letter saying 'sorry, I can't tell you where I am, or what I'm doing, but keep a stiff upper Up, old girl, and someday I'll be back.' At least you'll be fighting your war here, and-I admit I haven't a clue how, but I know that somehow I'll be able to-I can help, and at least we'll be together."


"Jesus, baby!"

"Unless you're too stupid to see this, to-"

"I'm sneaking Max Ashton out of the country."

"Just him? Not the others?"

"No, and I suspect that he'll be back here in a week or ten days, with a diplomatic passport."

"With the Lockheed?"

"If they don't know we're going beforehand-and the telephone line here will go out just before we take off from here, and stay out until I clear El Palomar-"

"'Clear El Palomar'?"

"Go through customs and immigration."

"Oh."

"I don't think we'll have any trouble getting through El

Palomar. And Humberto is arranging for people to meet us in Montevideo-my estancia managers and somebody from a bank."

"And with the girls along it will look even more innocent, right? Was that your idea?"

"Humberto V

"Do your sisters know?"

"No. And they're not my sisters, they're my cousins.

Martha knows."

"They're your sisters," she said. "I will take them to a place I know down by the port. Really marvelous leather goods. How long will your business take?"

"Aside from putting Max in touch with the OSS guy in our embassy in Montevideo, I don't have any business."

"But Humberto will arrange a lunch or something to make it look like you do," she said. "And we'll all be somebody's houseguests."

"Probably," Clete said.

"You can touch me now, Cletus," Dorotea said. "I was going to let you anyway." She took his hand and guided it to her belly.

"Sometimes he moves," she said.

"'He'?"

"God, I hope so," she said. "Don't you?"

VII


[ONE]

The Residence of the German Ambassador

1104LaRambla

Carrasco, Uruguay

0845 2 May 1943

The Residence of the Ambassador Extraordinary and

Plenipotentiary of the Fiihrer of the German Reich to the

Republica Oriental del Uruguay was a three-story red-tile roofed villa of indeterminate architecture set against a small hill overlooking the beach of the River Plate.

There was a small balcony outside the master suite of the house, where Ambassador Joachim Schulker, a stocky

Bavarian in his late fifties, was having his morning coffee in his bathrobe. From there he could see the small black embassy Mercedes moving down La Rambla, the road that ran from the Port of Montevideo to Carrasco along the River

Plate.

At the wheel was his secretary, Fraulein Gertrud Lerner, a buxom woman in her late thirties who wore her straw-blond hair in a bun at her neck. She had a small apartment in the

Embassy itself, which was in downtown Montevideo, but also on La Rambla.

Ambassador Schulker watched with his coffee cup in hand as Fraulein Lerner nosed the Mercedes against the gate of the driveway, stepped out of the car, and, marching pur posefully in her sturdy shoes, approached the door. Then he set his coffee cup on the railing and went to meet her.

His wife was still asleep as he passed through their bed room to the corridor outside.


When he reached the foot of the stairs, Fraulein Lerner was standing in the foyer, just inside the front door.

"Good morning, Trade," he said.

"There is an RCA radiogram, Excellency," she said, and handed him a yellow envelope.

When she was about the business of the Reich, Trade thought informality was inappropriate.

"Thank you very much, Fraulein Lerner," he said. "Will you wait just a moment, please?"

He tore open the envelope. It took him just a moment to confirm his suspicions about what the message would con tain.

"That will be all, Fraulein Lerner, thank you very much."

"Jawohl, Excellency!" she barked, and rendered the Nazi salute.

The Ambassador returned it, somewhat casually.

Fraulein Lerner turned and left the building, and drove back to the Embassy.

She was very proud that the Ambassador had enough respect for her ability and trustworthiness to ask her to serve as duty officer on weekends and holidays, a responsibility ordinarily given only to officers and seldom to administrative personnel.

And she had no idea that the appointment had been

Ambassador Schulker's solution to the interminable litanies of excuses about why the officers simply could not serve as duty officer this weekend, or over that holiday.

Ambassador Schulker closed the door, then went to the telephone on a small table in the foyer and dialed a number from memory.

It was answered by a female, speaking Spanish.

"Councilor Forster, please," he said. "This is Ambassador

Schulker."

Councilor Konrad Forster was diplomatically accredited to the Republic of Uruguay as the Commercial Attache of the

Embassy. He was also-as only Ambassador Schulker knew-Hauptsturmfiihrer Forster of the Geheime Staat spolizei-the German Secret State Police, known as the

Gestapo.


Forster came on the line a minute later, sounding as if he had been asleep. "Heil Hitler, Excellency!"

"Heil Hitler, Forster. I need a few words with you. Would twenty minutes from now be convenient?"

"Jawohl, Excellency."

"Heil Hitler," Schulker said, and hung up.

He climbed the stairs and entered his bedroom.

His wife woke as he was pulling on his trousers. "Are you going somewhere?"

"I need to see Forster for a few minutes. I won't be long."

"Why don't you have him come here?"

Because whenever he's been in my home, I feel like a dog has shat on the carpet.

"I won't be long," he repeated.

"We're having the Paraguays for lunch," she said. She meant the Paraguayan Ambassador and his wife.

"I know. I'll be back in plenty of time."

"On your way out, would you ask Juanita to bring me my coffee?"

"Certainly."

He started for the garage, but changed his mind. It was a nice day, and Forster lived only five blocks away. It would be a nice walk, and good for him.

The message Fraulein Lerner had delivered to him was for

Forster.

The German Embassy in Montevideo was not consid ered sufficiently important to the Thousand-Year Reich to have its own communications section. Thus routine mes sages to and from Berlin were transmitted over "commer cial facilities," which in the case of this message meant they were routed, via the German Post Office, to Geneva,

Switzerland, where they were retransmitted as ordinary radiograms over the facilities of RCA, which of course meant the Radio Corporation of America, which of course meant that copies were furnished to the American OSS detachment in Geneva.

Important messages-those it was hoped would not be read by the Americans en route-were routed through the

German Embassy in Buenos Aires, 200 kilometers across the Rio Plate. They were usually sent to Montevideo by messengers, who three times a week rode the overnight steamer between the two capitals. In the case of something really important, the couriers were flown across the river in a light aircraft assigned to the Embassy in Buenos Aires.

The exception to this procedure was for messages between the SS in Berlin and Hauptsturmfuhrer Forster.

These were transmitted as routine messages-that is to say, via RCA to and from Switzerland-in a code known, at least in theory, only to Hauptsturmfiihrer Forster.

Ambassador Schulker did not share the common belief that the Americans were intelligence amateurs and therefore incompetent. In his mind they had often proven this wrong, most recently when they had not only intercepted some sort of secret smuggling operation into Argentina, but in the process had not only eliminated the military attache of the

Buenos Aires Embassy and a senior SS officer but had accomplished that in such a manner that diplomatic protests could not be made.

He would not be at all surprised to learn that the message he was about to pass to Hauptsturmfiihrer Forster had already been decoded and read by the Americans in Geneva.

But, of course, he said nothing. Forster had told him the transmission system was foolproof, and a wise man never argued with the Gestapo.

He reached Forster's quarters in five minutes. Forster lived in a neat little bungalow two blocks off La Rambla. His car, an

Opel Kadet-appropriate to his rank-was parked inside the fence.

He rang the doorbell, and Forster opened it himself.

He was a slight man in his early thirties who wore his black hair slicked down, just long enough to part. There were also wire-framed glasses, with round lenses. In short, he looked very much like Heinrich Himmler. Schulker wondered whether this was intentional-brush mustaches like Hitler's had also become fashionable-or whether it was simply that Forster and Himmler were a type of German, as for example stout Bavarians were a type, and hawk-featured

Prussians and Pomeranians were another.


Forster was wearing a silk dressing gown and a foulard, and held a silver cigarette holder in his hand.

He probably thinks he looks like a gentleman, Schulker thought. God knows, he likes to play at being a diplomat.

But he really looks like neither. He looks like what he is, a clerk, with an exaggerated opinion of his own importance, wearing clothing he associates with that of his betters.

"Heil Hitler, Excellency! Good morning."

"It was such a pleasant day, I decided to walk," Schulker said, raising his arm to return the salute.

He stepped inside the house, and Forster closed the door.

"You have a message," Schulker said. "Fraulein Lerner just brought it to the residence."

He handed it to him, showing absolutely no interest in it.

He knew Forster well enough by now to know this was the best way to learn its contents. It was elementary psychology.

Forster believed he was an important man. Indeed, he had almost certainly been told this by his Gestapo superiors.

But if you are an insecure little man-which was how

Schulker thought of Forster… which did not challenge his belief that Forster was also a very dangerous man; the two characteristics were not mutually exclusive-who continually needs the approval of peers and superiors. As Forster works alone and secretly in his Gestapo role, he has neither.

The only person he can talk to about his important duties is me, and so long as I show no interest in his affairs, the only thing Forster can do to earn my admiration is to tell me more than he should.

"It may be important," Forster said self-importantly.

"May I ask you to wait, Herr Ambassador?"

"Of course, if you think it is important."

"I'll have the girl bring you a coffee," Forster said, leading

Schulker into the sitting room.

"Thank you."

Twenty minutes later, having decrypted the message,

Forster was back, even fuller of self-importance.

"There has been a development, Excellency, vis-a-vis the incident in Argentina," he announced.

Schulker looked at him without expression.


"You will have certain responsibilities in this regard," Forster went on. "But for the moment, all I can tell you is that Sturm bannfiihrer von Tresmarck will shortly be ordered to Berlin."

Schulker nodded.

"Your instructions in this regard will come via Buenos

Aires," Forster said.

Schulker nodded again.

"In the meantime, in other words, until you receive this information through your own channels, nothing must be said to the Sturmbannfuhrer."

"I understand."

"At this moment, I can tell you only that these actions are being ordered at the highest level."

"I understand your position, Forster."

"I will be providing further details as it becomes neces sary for you to learn of them."

"I'm at your disposal, Forster, if I have to say that."

"The Gestapo appreciates your cooperation as always,

Excellency," Forster said.

"We are both serving the Reich and the Fiihrer," Schulker said. "And now I must get back. We're having the

Paraguayans for lunch."

"Let me know if you hear anything interesting," Forster said.

"Of course," Schulker said, and,.raising his arm at the elbow, added, "Heil Hitler!"

[TWO]

Estancia de los Dos Caballos Blancos

Kilometer 87, Route National 1

Entre Rios Province, Uruguay

0945 2 May 1943

"You decent?" Beth Howell asked, putting her head in the door of the master bedroom.

"Yeah, come on in," Clete called. "I'm out here on the bal cony, or patio, or whatever the hell it is."


She walked across the bedroom to where he was standing on a small area outside the room, which overlooked the rolling hills of the pampas. He was wearing a polo shirt, khaki trousers, and a battered pair of Western boots.

Clete smiled at her and pointed to a coffeepot. She helped herself.

"If breakfast is anything like dinner last night, it will be noon before it's ready."

She poured herself a cup of coffee.


"I knew you were alone, Clete," she said, smiling at him. '

He looked at her. She was wearing a skirt, a pullover sweater, loafers, and white bobby socks. She looked very American.

"I just happened to open my door when I saw Dorotea coming out of this one. In her bathrobe, looking as chipper as can be. What is that, Cletus, do as I say, not as I do?"

"Jesus, you didn't say anything to her, did you?"


"She said, 'Good morning, Beth,' and I said 'Good morn ing, Dorotea.'"

He shook his head.

"Well, it will be legal on Saturday," Beth said. "What's the i harm in jumping the gun a little, right?"

"So far as you're concerned, it is do as I say, not as I do.";

"She really loves you, Clete, I can tell. I'm happy for you.

For both of you."

"Thanks, Beth."

"And for a small consideration, I won't tell Mother."

"Well, I think Mom has figured out that we're already j more than just good friends."

"I've been working on her-Mom asked me to-to get! her to come to the States to have the baby."

"I wish she would, but I don't think that will work. She'll want to be around her mother."

"Mom's been working on her, too. Pamela, I mean."

"I hope she's successful," Clete said.

"You think everything's OK with Captain Ashton?" Beth asked.

"Once we got out of the airport at Carrasco, he was home free," Clete said. "By now he's probably already in Brazil."

"He's a nice guy. I like him."


"Yeah, he is."

"When he comes back to Argentina, what am I supposed to do, pretend I never met him before?"

"Since he was never in Argentina, how could you have met him?"

"OK. Marjorie told me to ask."

She sipped her coffee, then gestured around at the rolling hills.

"I like your spread, Clete," she said. "It's so green…"

"As opposed to Big Foot Ranch, you mean? Yeah, this is great farmland. The topsoil is black and five, six feet deep. Too good, really, to graze cattle and sheep, which is about all they do with it."

"I like it down here," she said. "I almost hate to go back."

"Nobody special's waiting for you?"

She snorted. "Nobody who looks at me the way you look at

Dorotea."

"How do I look at Dorotea?"

"Like she's everything you want in life."

"Guilty," he said.

"When the war is over, what are you going to do? Stay here?

Or come home?"

"I don't know," he said. "Somehow I can't see Dorotea in

Midland."

"What about 'Whither thou goest,' et cetera, et cetera?"

"It's really strange, Beth, but I feel I belong here. Too, I mean. I will always be a simple roughneck-slash-cowboy from

Midland, Texas, but-"

" 'Simple'? The one thing you have never been is simple.

You're really a chip off the old blockhead."

"Which blockhead is that? My father? Or the Old Man?"

"I was thinking of the Old Man, but now that I think about it, probably both. I can see how you eat up this 'el patron' business."

"Meaning what?"

"Just what it sounds like. You like it. That's an observation, not a criticism."

"There is something to be said for putting out your hand and somebody putting a cup of coffee in it."


"That's not what I mean. I mean, I thought about it. You're half Argentine. I knew that, but I never understood it until I saw you here. This is your country, too."

"You're speaking to Major Frade of the Marine Corps, the

United States Marine Corps."

"You know what I mean, Clete. Face facts."

"What I'm doing right now is facing that fact. I am a

Marine Corps officer. When the war is over, then I'll worry about what else I am."

"OK," she said. "Are you going to get married in that gor geous Marine uniform, Major Frade?"

"I never thought about what I would wear," he confessed.

"But, hell, yes, that's a great idea."

A maid came onto the patio and told El Patron that breakfast was being served."

"El Patron and I will be there directly," Beth told her in

Spanish, then smiled knowingly at Clete.

"It's easy to get used to," he said, and then waved her ahead of him out of the room.

He followed her down the corridor to the dining room, where everyone was seated at the table. Dorotea was sitting at its foot-as she had at dinner-which meant, Clete thought, that as far as she was concerned she was already playing the role of La Patrona. It pleased him.

"Good morning, Cletus," Dorotea said sweetly. "Did you sleep well?"

God, she's beautiful!

"Actually, no," he said seriously. "One thing and another kept me up most of the night."

"Perhaps your conscience was bothering you, darling," she replied without missing a beat.

"And how did you sleep, Dorotea?" Beth asked innocently.

"Well, there was nothing on my conscience, so I slept like a baby," Dorotea replied.

She picked up a small silver bell by her plate and rang it.

Two maids immediately came out of the kitchen and started serving breakfast.


[THREE] Control

Tower El Palomar

Airfield Buenos Aires

1435 2 May 1943

"Mi Coronel…" the senior control operator said, and when he had Coronel Bernardo Martin's attention, pointed his index finger toward the sky.

Martin picked up a set of earphones and put them on. He was in uniform because a colonel's uniform would be more useful than his Bureau of Internal Security credentials for what he wanted to do now.

"El Palomar Tower, this is Lockheed Zebra Eight Four

Three."

Despite the slight static and clipped frequency of the control tower's radio, the voice was easily recognizable as Cletus

Frade's.

Martin looked at the control tower operator, who was doing absolutely nothing. Martin gestured impatiently for him to get on with it.

The operator picked up his microphone. "Lockheed Zebra

Eight Four Three, El Palomar, go ahead."

"Four Three is at 2,500 meters, indicating 250 knots- correction, 400 kilometers-per hour, approximately sixty kilometers due north of your station. Request approach and landing instructions. Over."

Four hundred kilometers per hour? My God, that's fast!

He did the arithmetic: Four hundred kilometers an hour was six point six six six forever kilometers a minute. At that speed, it will take him nine minutes to fly sixty kilometers. I just got here in time.

"Mi Coronel?" the control tower operator asked.

"Give him what he wants, por favor, Senor," Martin said politely, and added mentally, You idiot!


"Lockheed Zebra Eight Four Three, El Palomar. Permis sion to approach El Palomar on present course is granted.

Descend to one thousand meters. Report when twenty kilo meters from the field."

"El Palomar Four Three. Understand and will comply.

Beginning descent at this time."

Four minutes later, Lockheed Zebra Eight Four Three called again.

"El Palomar, Four Three. At one thousand meters. Due north. Indicating four hundred kilometers. Estimate maybe

25 kilometers from your station."

This time Martin was waiting for the control-tower operator to ask for instructions.

"Do whatever you have to do to have him land," he ordered.

"Si, mi Coronel," the control-tower operator said, and picked up his microphone. "Lockheed Zebra Eight Four

Three, El Palomar."

"Four Three, go ahead."

"You are cleared to land on Runway One Eight. There is no other traffic. The winds are from the south at fifteen kilo meters. Report when you have airfield in sight."

"Understand, One Eight. South at fifteen. I have the air field in sight. I will require customs and immigration."

Again, Martin was waiting for the control-tower opera tor's request for orders.

"Inform the appropriate customs and immigration offi cials," he said, "and thank you for your courtesy, senor."

"It is nothing, mi Coronel."

Martin quickly went down the steep and narrow stairs from the control tower and walked toward the customs and immigration area. He was nearly there when, looking north ward toward the Rio Plate, he saw the Lodestar making its approach to the field.

He stopped to watch it land.

The wheels came out of their wells. The airplane moved slightly to the right to precisely line up with the runway, and then it gracefully touched down, the tires giving off an audible squeal and puffs of smoke when they encountered the runway.

It's a beautiful machine. I'm glad I came to see this.

He resumed walking as the Lockheed rolled to the far end of the runway.

The day before, he had been informed that the Lodestar had taken off from Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo an hour and a half after the event. The report would have come immediately, Benito Letieri had assured him nervously, if the telephone line hadn't gone out.

Benito had also related that Senor Frade's two sisters were aboard, as were Senorita Mallin and Senor Duarte, but no one else, Benito seemed to think. His information was that they were bound for Uruguay.

Martin had immediately called El Palomar, not at all sur prised to hear that the Lockheed had cleared customs and immigration and taken off ten minutes earlier with the announced destination of Carrasco airfield, outside Monte video.

By the time Martin could get through to his man in Mon tevideo, it was of course too late for him to reach the airport when the Lockheed landed; but he had ordered him out there anyway, with orders to ask questions and immediately report the answers. And also to stay there, around the clock if nec essary, to report the departure of the Lockheed.

Martin thought, more admiringly than angrily, that whatever the purpose of his flight, Cletus Frade had gotten away with it. It was of course entirely possible that the flight was wholly innocent, and that the telephone line going down so conveniently was Cletus Frade tweaking his tail.

But it was also highly possible-Cletus Frade not being the amateur intelligence officer he'd once assumed-that

Frade had wanted to see if the people he knew were watching him at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo could communicate with Buenos Aires by another means besides the telephone.

If I had had my people at El Palomar when he landed the first time, he would have known that I had another telephone line, or a radio, out there. And I suspect that if my men had gone over that airplane with a fine-toothed comb, they would have found nothing at all illegal.

His man in Uruguay had called several hours later to report that the plane had been met by the managers of

Frade's Uruguayan estancias and by the Managing Director of the Bank of the Rio Plate. Frade and Senor Duarte had gone off to an unknown destination with the banker and the managers, and the young ladies had gone off in another car.

And then today, when his man in Montevideo had called to report that Frade was in the process of clearing customs and immigration and about to take off for El Palomar,

Martin had decided that the facts clearly indicated that the trip was as innocent as it appeared… or else Frade had suc ceeded in doing whatever he'd wanted to do.

Under ordinary circumstances, he would have simply sent one of his men to El Palomar to see what he could find out. If the clever fellow had succeeded in putting one over on him, he didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing him there. But under these circumstances-he would have to report the flight to General Obregon-he decided the best thing to do was go. He did not want General Obregon to think he was not doing all he could to keep an eye on Frade.

When he reached the airfield, he toyed briefly with having a word with the customs people to take a close look at the aircraft, but decided that it wouldn't be necessary. When they saw him in uniform, they would be inspired to show how dedicated they were to their duty.

The Lockheed was now taxiing up the taxiway parallel to the runway. Martin could not see Frade, but he could see the copilot, over whose long blond hair were cocked a set of ear phones.

I wonder how much the beautiful Senorita Mallin knows about what he's doing? Or how much, if anything, she will learn as Senora Frade?

With a roar of its engines and a blast of air from its pro pellers (which blew Martin's uniform cap off his head), the

Lodestar turned and stopped in the customs area.

When he had chased down his hat and turned back to the airplane, he saw Frade in the pilot's seat. Frade waved cheer fully, smiling in obvious amusement about the blown-off hat. Coronel Martin saluted.

A somewhat battered 1938 Ford station wagon drove up to the airplane, bearing customs and immigration officers.

They did not seem at all surprised to see him, which meant that the man in the control tower had not only called them, but told them that a colonel of the Bureau of Internal Security was showing great interest in the aircraft.

The customs and immigration officials saluted him, word lessly asking for instructions. He returned the salute but said nothing.

The engines died, and a moment later the door in the fuse lage opened. Frade was the first person out. "Buenas tardes, mi Coronel," he said cheerfully. "How nice to see you. Just happened to be at the airfield, right?"

"A pleasant happenstance, Mayor Frade."

"Oh, really? When I saw you chasing your hat into the grass, I thought perhaps a little bird had told you we were coming."

"A'little bird'?"

"A little bird in Uruguay. A man at Carrasco was fasci nated with the airplane, and when I looked at him, I had the strangest feeling that you might know each other."

"Oh, I think your imagination is running away with you, my friend. Argentina would never station an intelligence officer on someone else's soil."

Clete chuckled, and Martin smiled at him. "Did you have a nice flight?"

"Lovely, thank you," Clete said.

"That's really a fine airplane. I've only seen it before at a distance."

"I'd be happy to show it you."

"I'd like that," Martin said.

Humberto Duarte was the next to step out of the airplane, followed by Dorotea Mallin and Beth and Marjorie Howell, and finally by Enrico Rodriguez.

"How nice to see you, Senor Duarte," Martin said.

"What an unexpected pleasure, Coronel," Humberto said.

"Do you know my fiancee, Colonel? And my cousins?"


"I have not had the pleasure, but I know of Senorita Mal-lin by reputation."

"And what reputation would that be?"

"As one of Argentina's most lovely women."

"You are too kind, Coronel," Dorotea said.

"And these are my cousins, Miss Marjorie and Miss Eliz abeth Howell. Beth, Marj, this is Coronel Alejandro

Martin."

"I am enchanted, ladies. Argentina is enriched by your beauty."

"I think I like you, Colonel," Beth said, giving him her hand.

"In that case, I am enchanted and delighted."

"Are you a friend of Clete's?" Beth asked.

"I like to think so," Martin said. "And while I have the opportunity, Senorita Mallin, may I offer my very best wishes for your upcoming marriage?"

"And what little bird told you about that?" Clete asked.

"My wife's sister, actually. She works in the office of the

Cardinal Archbishop. It will take place next Saturday, cor rect?"

"And we look forward to seeing you there, don't we, dar ling?" Clete said. "You and Senora Martin."

"Absolutely," Dorotea said without hesitation.

"I accept with great pleasure."

"The invitations will go out on Monday," Dorotea said. "It will be at El Capilla Nuestra Senora de los Milagros on

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo."

"So I understand," Martin said.

"Your sister-in-law told you that too?" Clete asked. "Just out of personal curiosity, Bernardo, who does she work for, you or the Archbishop?"

"I think she is what people in the intelligence business refer to as an informal but usually reliable source of infor mation," Martin said.

"I suppose people like that can be very useful," Clete said,

"to someone in the intelligence business."

"Oh, yes, indeed."

"Mi Coronel," the customs officer interrupted hesitantly.


"With your permission, Senor, may we proceed with the inspection of the aircraft and the luggage?"

"Oh, I don't think that will be necessary," Martin said.

"Senor Frade and Senor Duarte are prominent citizens of our country. I can't image that they would try to smuggle anything into Argentina. Or, for that matter, out of

Argentina. You may have your records indicate that I waived the customs inspection. If you will have someone stamp their passports, they can be on their way."

"Si, Senor."

"That's very good of you, Bernardo."

"It's nothing, Cletus. What are friends for?"

"But you would like a tour of the airplane?"

"I would very much like to see the inside."

Clete waved him onto the Lodestar.

Twenty minutes later, Martin watched the Lodestar lift off, genuinely impressed both with the technology it repre sented-four hundred kilometers in one hour! And it isn 't a fighter plane, which you expect to be very fast, but a trans port, with leather-upholstered seats for fourteen people!- and with the pilot-Gonzalo Delgano says that two highly skilled pilots are needed to operate it, and here Frade is casually flying it by himself.

He considered leaving instructions with the airport com mander that the Lodestar was never again to be cleared for departure without his being notified beforehand, but decided against it.

It would be a waste of time and effort.

Cletus Frade would expect him to do something like that, and if he decided in the future to use the aircraft for anything illegal, he wouldn't bother to clear customs and immigration beforehand.


[FOUR]

Estancia Santo Catalina

Near Pila

Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

1645 2 May 1943

I am not buzzing Estancia Santo Catalina with this great big sonofabitch, Cletus Frade told himself. All I am doing is making a very low, very slow approach to my airstrip.

It wasn't very low, actually, about 500 feet over the roof of the main house, but it wasn't very slow, either. The Dash

One said the Lodestar would stall at about 75 knots. Since he hadn't had the opportunity to stall the Lodestar yet, the safe thing to do was perform a maneuver like this at three times stall speed, which translated to approximately 230 knots.

Only two people sitting in the gazebo near the main house smiled when the Lodestar flashed overhead with a deafening roar and even perhaps a little propeller wash.

Claudia Carzino-Cormano wasn't sure later whether the tall flower vase had been knocked over by wind from the air plane, or whether Senor Enrico Mallfn had jarred the heavy table as he jumped to his feet and cried, "Holy Mother of

Christ!"

Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein, who was at the gazebo to make his manners to his hostess for her week end hospitality, smiled. Buzzing unsuspecting natives is something that fighter pilots do, although rarely in a twin engine transport.

And Mrs. Martha Howell smiled, too, not sure later whether she had forgotten her manners because of memories of her husband and Clete buzzing Big Foot Ranch, or because the look of absolute terror on the face of Enrico

Mallin was the funniest thing that had happened all day.


"He's out of his mind!" Enrico Mallin proclaimed, red faced. "Dorotea is on that airplane!"

"I would say he's exuberant, Enrico," Martha said, coming to Clete's defense. "He's actually a very good pilot."

"He shot down seven Japanese planes, you know," the Old

Man said, looking at von Wachtstein.

"Did he really?" Peter replied politely. Countering that he had shot down thirty-two himself, including six Americans, would have been really bad form. And he liked the Old Man. In many ways he was like his father, with a definite opinion about everything.

"Yes, he did," the Old Man drove the point home.

"Well, at least we know they're back," Pamela Mallin said. "Which means we can go fetch her."

"I'll send someone over in a car. Or Cletus can bring her,"

Claudia said.

"Oh, no," Enrico said firmly. "Thank you very much, but we'd rather, wouldn't we, Pamela?"

The good-byes and expressions of mutual gratitude took almost twenty minutes, and Enrico Mallfn's Rolls-Royce drop-head coupe had just reached the road paralleling the

Estancia Santo Catalina landing strip when the Feiseler

Storch flashed overhead.

Enrico Mallrn looked at his wife across Little Enrico-a slender fifteen-year-old who had inherited his mother's blond hair and soft, pale complexion. "Peter's going to be at the wedding, is he?"

"You know how Beatrice feels about him," Pamela said.

You mean I know how crazy she is.

"That isn't going to cause problems with Cletus?" Enrico asked.

"Both of them are aware they are in a neutral country,"

Pamela said. "And will behave accordingly."

"The Germans killed Jorge Frade," Mallin said.

"I'm sure Major von Wachtstein had nothing to do with that," Pamela said. "And I know Cletus doesn't hold him responsible, either."


"Forgive me for saying this, darling, but has it ever occurred to you how much better off everyone would be if neither the Germans nor the Americans were here?"

"No," Pamela said, quietly angry. "I won't forgive you for saying that. That was a terrible thing to say. If I were in your shoes, Enrico, I would thank God that our daughter has found a man like Cletus."

Enrico Mallfn looked at her for a long moment, but in the end decided not to argue the point. "If I offended you, dar ling," he said, "I offer my apologies."

"You had better get used to the idea that Cletus is about to become a member of the family," Pamela went on, warming to her subject, "and that we're about to become grandpar ents, and modify your attitude toward Cletus accordingly."

With a look of horror on his face that the shameful secret had been blurted out, Enrico Mallfn smiled uncomfortably at his son.

"We are going to have to have a man-to-man talk very soon, Enrico," he said.

"I know Dotty's pregnant, if that's what you mean," Little

Henry said. "I mean, everybody knows. I even heard the ser vants talking about it."

"We will still have a talk, man to man, my son," Enrico said.

Twenty minutes later, the Rolls topped a shallow rise in the rolling pampas, and Enrico Mallfn could see the road now stretching before them in a nearly straight line for several miles. And a moment after that, a car appeared on the road, heading toward them.

"If I didn't know better," Enrico said, gesturing through the windshield at the car, "I'd say that looks like Jorge's

Horch."

"That's it." Pamela said. "He had it repaired."

"My God, how fast is he going?" Enrico exclaimed, and added: "If I were him, I don't think I would ever want to see that car again."

"You're not him," Pamela said.

Mallfn slowed, pulled to the side of the road, and stopped.

Less than a minute later, the Horch, braking heavily, stopped beside it. Dorotea Mallfn was driving. Clete was in the front seat with her. Enrico Rodriguez was in the backseat.

"Well, hello," Clete greeted them. "Something wrong?"

"I didn't want to be run off the road," Enrico Mallfn said.

"What's your hurry? Is something wrong?"

"No," Clete said, smiling. "We're just road-testing the car.

How does it look, Enrico?"

Among the many things Enrico Mallfn did not like about his son-in-law-to-be was that he addressed him by his Christian name.

"It looks splendid," Enrico said with a somewhat stiff smile.

Enrico got out of the Rolls-Royce and walked up to the

Horch, and Little Henry got out immediately and followed him.

"I thought they normally kept you locked in the attic,"

Clete said to him, smiling. "Got out on parole, did you?"

Then he walked over and kissed Pamela. "No, I don't want to hear about the plans for the wedding," he said, "in case you were going to ask."

Among the many things Enrico Mallfn did not like about his son-in-law-to-be was his sense of humor.

"Be careful," she said. "I still have not completely for given you…"

"Forgiven me for what?" Clete asked innocently.

Little Enrico giggled.

You know damned well for what, Enrico Mallfn thought.

For what you did to my Dorotea. Taking her innocence and purity. Ruining her life! I will never forgive you!

"How was Uruguay?" Pamela asked.

"The girls bought out a leather store down by the port,"

Clete said. "Each now has a lifetime supply of purses."

"We have to be getting back to Buenos Aires, Cletus,"

Pamela said, seeing that her husband was doing everything in his impatience but pawing the ground.

"We'd sort of expected you for supper," Clete said.

"Out of the question, I'm afraid," Enrico said. "Thank you just the same."


"Perhaps something light, if we had it early," Pamela said, adding, to her husband, "We have to eat."

He grunted.

"How about in an hour?" Clete said. "I've got a little errand to run."

"We'll take Dorotea with us," Enrico said.

"We want to be alone, Daddy!" Dorotea said.

"Can I go, Clete?" Little Enrico asked.

Among the many things Enrico Mallm did not like about his son-in-law-to-be was that Little Enrico idolized him.

"No," Clete said immediately, and somewhat abruptly, but then, when he saw the look of disappointment on the boy's face, added, "But I'll tell you what, Enrico Junior, when you get to the house, tell Beth I said to take you for a ride in a

Model A. You can drive."

"Really?"

"Clete," Enrico Mallfn said sternly, "I'm afraid Enrico is a little young for that. He doesn't know how to drive."

"He's fifteen and he can't drive?" Clete asked incredu lously. "He doesn't look backward."

"He can't drive," Enrico Mallfn repeated, somewhat coldly.

"Well, then, it's high time he learned. And Beth can teach him."

Among the many things Enrico Mallm did not like about his son-in-law-to-be was his presumption that he had the right to offer Little Enrico things-potentially dangerous things-without first seeking his approval.

"See you at the house in forty-five minutes," Clete sa(kl, and gestured for Dorotea to get moving. ^

There was the sound of gunfire as they approached the radio station.

Clete knew what it was, and smiled.

Dorotea looked at him in alarm and saw the smile. "What in the world is that?" she asked.

"An old Texas custom," he said. "Good ol' boys whiling away a dull Sunday afternoon, ventilating tin cans."


In a locked room in one of the outbuildings near the garage, Clete had come across small-arms ammunition- enough, in his professional judgment as a Marine officer, to supply a battalion about to land on a hostile beach.

He presumed his father had cached the ammunition there before the coup d'etat. Whatever the reason, he had shown it to

Chief Schultz, who had loaded a dozen cases of.45 ACP pistol ammunition-1,200 rounds per case-onto his Model A pickup and taken it to the radio station.

The marksmen turned out to be Chief Schultz and three of the men of Ashton's Western Hemisphere Team 17-Staff

Sergeant Jerry O'Sullivan, a radar operator, a wiry little man with sharp features and intelligent eyes; Technical Sergeant

Ferns, a trimly built man who ran the generator powering the radar and was the team's armorer; and the team's executive officer, First Lieutenant Madison R. Sawyer III, a large, good looking, well-muscled young man.

O'Sullivan and Ferris were in casual civilian clothing, purchased for them by Ashton in Pila, the nearest town. Like the chief, Sawyer was wearing the billowing shirt, trousers, and boots of a gaucho.

If Sawyer was aware that he looked ridiculous popping to attention dressed that way and crisply saluting Clete, it didn't show on his face. "Good afternoon. Sir!"

Clete returned the salute, pretending not to see that

Sergeants Ferris and O'Sullivan were shaking their heads in disbelief at Sawyer's parade-ground behavior.

"I was hoping to see you, Sawyer," he said. "Everybody's here?"

"Stein has the duty, Sir," Sawyer said.

Sergeant Siegfried Stein's family had fled Hitler's Ger many in 1935; he now had a degree in electrical engineering from the University of Chicago. He was the radar expert.

By "has the duty," Sawyer meant that Stein was at the radar site, where the equipment was turned on once every two hours or so-never at a precise interval, but long enough to scan Samborombon Bay looking for a ship that might be a

German submarine-replenishment vessel.


The crack he had made about good oF boys whiling away a dull Sunday afternoon had been right on the money, Clete thought. Not only had they been ventilating tin cans-there was a pile of bullet-riddled cans twenty-five yards from the main building-but they had also been having a beer-and beef barbecue.

"Gentlemen, I don't believe you know my fiancee. This is

Dorotea Mallin. Honey, the big gaucho is Lieutenant Madison

Sawyer; the ugly Irishman is Sergeant Jerry O'Sullivan; and that's Sergeant Bill Ferns."

He waited until they had all gone through the polite motions with her, then added, "And in answer to the question that everybody's too polite to ask, yes, she knows what you're doing out here besides drinking beer."

"Speaking of which?" Sawyer asked.

"Yes, indeed. Thank you very much. I was afraid you were never going to ask."

"I'll go get a glass for the lady," Ferris said.

"Don't bother," Dorotea said. "I like it from the bottle."

"How did things go yesterday, skipper?" the chief asked.

"Like you know what through a goose," Clete said.

Dorotea looked at him curiously. "I turned him over to

Whatsisname-" 4

"Stevenson? Ralph Stevenson? Our guy in Montevideo?"

"Right. And Stevenson said he could get him to Porto Ale gre with no trouble. From there, he should be able to travel to

Rio de Janeiro in a matter of hours."

"Stevenson is a good man," Schultz said.

"We need to get a message out right away-" Clete said, and then interrupted himself. "If there had been anything for me, I guess you would have told me?"

"Nothing, skipper."

"OK. Message Graham that I took Ashton to Montevideo in the Lodestar and turned him over, without incident, to

Stevenson, et cetera, et cetera."

"Aye, aye, Sir," the chief said. "You mean right now, or will it wait until the next scheduled call? That's in about an hour."


"It'll wait until then," Clete said.

"I'll do you a draft," the Chief said, and walked into the house.

"May I offer something to eat, Miss Mallin?" Sawyer asked politely.

"First of all, call me Dorotea. And, no, thank you, we're going to eat just as soon as we get to the main house,"

Dorotea said. "But do you suppose I could try that?"

"Try what?"

"One of those," she said, pointing to the.45 pistols on the table. "I've never fired a gun."

Sawyer looked at Clete, who nodded his permission.

"Baby, they make a lot of noise and they kick like a mule,"

Clete said.

"Forewarned is forearmed, right?" she said.

Sawyer picked up one of the pistols and began a lecture on the Pistol, Caliber.45 Model 1911A1, worthy of the

Infantry School.

Her first shots went as wild as Clete thought they would, but within five minutes, she hit her first tin can, and turned to smile proudly and happily at Clete.

A moment later the Chief touched Clete's arm and handed him a sheet of typewriter paper.

"I included our routine crap, OK, skipper?"

PRIORITY



TOP SECRET LINDBERGH



DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN



FROM TEX



MSG NO 106 TIME TIME GREENWICH 2 MAY



1943



TO AGGIE



BACARDI SUCCESSFULLY EXFILTRATED BY TEX



IN PARROT TO CARE OF COUTH 1 MAY



BACARDI ETA CARIOCA VIA BIRDCAGE 4 MAY



URGENTLY REQUIRE SIX EACH REPEAT SIX



EACH PART NUMBER 23-34567



FOUR EACH REPEAT FOUR EACH PART NUMBER



23 8707



FOUR EACH REPEAT FOUR EACH PART NUMBER



23 8710



ABOVE NOT REPEAT NOT AVAILABLE LOCAL



ECONOMY



NO FISHING LUCK AT ALL



ACKNOWLEDGE



TEX



"Parrot" was the code name of the Lodestar. "Couth" was

Mr. Ralph Stevenson, the Cultural Attache of the American

Embassy in Montevideo. "Carioca" was Rio de Janeiro. And

"Birdcage" was the U.S. Army Air Corps base in Porto Ale gre, Brazil. "No Fishing Luck" meant that no ship even sus pected of being a German replenishment vessel had appeared on the radar screen.

'"Urgently require,' Chief?" Clete asked.

"If I don't say 'urgently' they'll send it in time for Christ mas 1945. There's no problem with the radar, skipper. Stein is just being careful. Even Urgent, though, it takes two weeks at least to fly parts down in the diplomatic pouch to the Embassy, and a couple of more days before Lieutenant

Pelosi can get them out here."


Clete nodded his understanding.

"Looks fine, Chief," he said. "Send it."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

"Hey, honey, we have to get back," Clete called to

Dorotea.

With obvious reluctance, she laid the.45 down.

VIII


[ ONE ]

The Embassy of the German Reich

Avenue Cordoba

Buenos Aires, Argentina

0815 3 May 1943

The moment Ambassador von Lutzenberger appeared for



4



work, Fraulein Ingebord Hassell followed him into his office. He sat down at his desk and then looked up at her.

"Excellency," Fraulein Hassell said, "there is a Most Urgent, Most Secret from Berlin." "Who did the decryption?" "I did, Excellency."

He held his hand out for it. She gave it to him, took a step backward, and folded her hands over her stomach, awaiting her orders.



CLASSIFICATION: MOST



URGENT CONFIDENTIALITY:



MOST SECRET DATE: 24



APRIL 1943 FROM:



FOREIGN MINISTER



TO: IMMEDIATE AND PERSONAL ATTENTION



OF THE REICH AMBASSADOR TO ARGENTINA



BUENOS AIRES



HEIL HITLER!



RECEIPT OF YOUR MOST SECRET OF 20



APRIL 1943 IN RE THE DEATHS OF



STANDARTENFUHRER GOLTZ AND OBERST



GRUNER IS ACKNOWLEDGED AND HAS BEEN



RECEIVED WITH THE GRAVEST CONCERN.


THE SITUATION IS BEING EVALUATED AT



THE HIGHEST LEVELS OF THE GOVERNMENT



AT THE REQUEST OF GENERALFELDMAR SCHALL KEITEL, REICHSFUHRER-SS HIM MLER HAS SECONDED SS-OBERFUHRER

Загрузка...