The Honor of Spies

IV

[ONE]

Approaching El Plumerillo Airfield

Mendoza, Mendoza Province, Argentina

1745 14 August 1943

"I have been in here before," Gonzalo Delgano's voice came over the earphones.

"Chief Pilot," Frade ordered sternly, "take command of the aircraft."

Frade took his hands off the yoke and raised them much higher than was necessary to signal he was no longer flying the Lodestar.

Delgano smiled at him.

"Sometimes there's a little crosswind coming off the mountains," Delgano said, nodding toward the Andes. "You can tell when the wind-sock pole is bent more than forty-five degrees."

He demonstrated a bent wind-sock pole with his index finger.

Frade smiled at him.

Delgano shoved the yoke forward so that he could make a low-level pass over the field to have a look at the wind sock.

They were not in communication with the El Plumerillo tower. Delgano was not surprised; he told Clete that there was only one Aeropostal flight into Mendoza every day at about noon--and sometimes not that often--and as soon as it took off again, the tower closed down. There was some other use of the field by the military, and even some private aviation traffic, but not enough to justify a dawn-to-dusk tower. The runway was not lighted, which made a tower useless at night.

Delgano had told Frade just after they had taken off that at this time of year they should not be surprised if the field was closed due to weather or--flying dead-reckoning navigation due to no reliable radio navigation aids--they could not even find the field before dark. Winds aloft could knock them as much as fifty or a hundred miles off course.

They were in no danger. There was more than enough fuel to take them back to Buenos Aires, where runway and taxi lights had been installed at Aerodromo Jorge Frade in Moron while they had been in the United States. Nor would they have trouble finding Jorge Frade, as there was both a radio beacon and an around-the-clock tower operation using a Collins Model 7.2 transceiver, which was just about the latest thing in the States.

And the radio direction finder would be working, awaiting the six Lodestars en route from the United States. No one knew when they would leave or arrive, but Jorge Frade had to be ready to guide them in.

The primitive conditions at El Plumerillo would soon change. While they were in the United States, Guillermo de Filippi--"Senor Manana," SAA's chief of maintenance--had finally managed to get contracts for the construction of a combined hangar/passenger terminal/tower, as well as landing lights.

Frade had quickly decided that simply installing the landing lights and having SAA give them to the airfield would be cheaper in the long run--and get them installed much quicker--than would entering into lengthy negotiations, with the inevitable greasing of the appropriate palms of the local authorities to have them do it.

The wind sock was full and parallel to the runway, indicating that the wind was blowing along the runway. But the pole was perfectly erect, so no crosswind.

Delgano moved the throttles forward and picked up the nose. He would gain a little altitude, then make a 180-degree turn for a straight-in approach.

"Try very hard not to bend it, Gonzo," Frade said.

Delgano took a hand from the yoke long enough to give Frade the finger.

The passenger compartment was crowded, just about full. The first three rows of seats were occupied by six peones, all of them former members of the Husares de Pueyrredon, five of whom were having their first experience with aerial flight. In the aisle between their seats were bags holding rifles, pistols, and submachine guns that had been stored in the basement of el Coronel's garage since the time he had been planning to stage a coup d'etat against the then-president of Argentina.

Sergeant Sigfried Stein--who had come to Argentina as Team Turtle's explosives expert and been converted to a reasonably well-qualified radio technician and, more recently, to "Major" Stein to deal with the Froggers--had been brought along not only to continue dealing with the Froggers but also to set up a Collins Model 7.2 transceiver and the SIGABA encryption device. Not at the airport, though; a Collins for that purpose would be flown in when the tower was finished.

The transceiver and encryption equipment on the Lodestar would be installed in Casa Montagna for use by Captain Madison R. Sawyer III. Sawyer, who was no longer needed to blow up German replenishment ships in the River Plate, now was to be in command of what Frade privately thought of as "the insane asylum." Using the very latest cryptographic technology, Sawyer would be able to communicate with Frade in Buenos Aires and with Second Lieutenant Len Fischer at the Army Security Agency facility at Vint Hill Farms Station, Virginia, and through Vint Hill with Colonel Graham in Washington, D.C.

In the row behind the peones sat Enrico Rodriguez. Dona Dorotea's in-flight luggage filled the seat across the aisle from him.

In the next row, Sawyer was sitting across the aisle from Stein.

Behind him sat Oberstleutnant Frogger, across from his father.

Behind them, Father Welner and Dona Dorotea sat where they could keep a close eye on Frau Frogger, who lay on a mattress in the aisle. An hour before, Welner had woken her long enough to give her a drink laced with sedative.

So far, Cletus Frade thought as the Lodestar slowed on its landing roll, everything has gone off without a hitch--

Gonzo had been waiting for him at Jorge Frade. When Frade had explained what he wanted to do--more accurately, more importantly, what he was asking Delgano to do--Delgano had considered it for no more than two seconds, then said, "Let me get my bag. I told my wife I'd probably be gone for a couple of days."

When they landed on the Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo strip, just about everything had been loaded aboard the Lodestar but Frau Frogger, and she appeared minutes later, on a mattress on top of a makeshift stretcher. They were airborne in the Lodestar thirty minutes after Frade landed the Piper.

It had been a little rougher at 5,000 feet than it would have been at a greater altitude, but when flying dead reckoning, it is useful to be able to see things on the ground. The weather had been clear and they had had no trouble finding their way to Mendoza, where Gonzo had set the Lodestar down very smoothly.

They were five minutes ahead of their ETA guesstimate.

--and therefore the other shoe is certainly about to drop.

They were not expected. It was a given that the telephone lines to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo were being listened to by the Bureau of Internal Security, so telephoning ahead to the airport, or to Estancia Don Guillermo and especially to the Convent of the Little Sisters of Santa Maria del Pilar, had not been an option if they didn't want el Coronel Martin to know they were going to Mendoza long before they got there.

The result of that would have been representatives of the local BIS office waiting for them to see who got off the airplane and where they went. And the local BIS would have descriptions of the Froggers.

The airplane itself was going to cause a stir, because as far as either Delgano or Frade knew, this was going to be the first time that a Lodestar--and a brilliantly red one, at that--had landed at El Plumerillo airfield.

Their only option seemed to be brazening it out, and that's what they did.

When the on-duty official of El Plumerillo came out to greet the airplane before the engines had died, Enrico and Delgano got off the airplane and professed surprise and anger that there was no one there to meet them, and implied the official greeting them was probably the miscreant responsible. Don Cletus Frade was going to be very angry that his guests were going to be inconvenienced.

The official quickly took them to a telephone, where Enrico called Casa Montagna and ordered that whatever cars were there, plus a closed truck, be sent immediately to the airport for Don and Dona Frade and their guests.

A 1938 Ford two-and-a-half-ton stake body, a 1939 Ford Fordor, a 1936 La Salle five-passenger sedan, and a strange-looking 1941 Lincoln Continental--a four-door sedan--arrived forty-five minutes later. Clete had never seen a Lincoln Continental four-door sedan; he didn't even know they made one.

With Father Welner directing, the peones gently installed Frau Frogger in the backseat of the La Salle with her son and husband on either side of her. Her condition was explained as airsickness, and Father Welner assured the airfield official there was nothing to worry about. Enrico got in the front seat and the La Salle started off for the estancia.

Sergeant Stein supervised the loading of the Collins transceiver and SIGABA into the truck, then the bagged weapons, which he identified as Don Cletus Frade's golf clubs. He then got into the 1939 Fordor, into which also squeezed as many of the peones--four--as would fit. The other two rode in the back of the truck with the luggage.

And finally, Dona Dorotea and Don Cletus descended regally from the Lodestar and allowed themselves to be installed in the backseat of the Lincoln Continental sedan beside Father Welner.

"Take us to the convent of the Little Sisters of Santa Maria del Pilar, please," the priest ordered the driver of the car, who was the resident manager of Estancia Don Guillermo.

"Si, Padre," the driver said, then added: "Don Cletus, if I had only known you were coming, we would have been waiting for you."

"Not to worry," Frade said grandly. "That sort of thing happens."

On the way to the convent, Welner explained the Lincoln. It was Beatriz Frade de Duarte's car and had been sent to Mendoza when it was thought she would be going there.

"I didn't know they made a four-door sedan," Frade said.

"They don't. When it came down here, it was a drop-top coupe, and Beatriz said that mussed her hair, so she had it rebodied in Rosario."

Cletus had, and was immediately ashamed of, the unkind thought that his Aunt Beatriz had apparently always been some kind of a nut.

[TWO]

The Convent of Santa Maria del Pilar

Mendoza, Mendoza Province, Argentina

1820 14 August 1943

The Mother Superior of the Mendoza chapter of the Order of the Little Sisters of Santa Maria del Pilar, who received them in a dark office crowded with books, was a leathery-skinned, tiny woman of indeterminate age.

"Thank you for receiving us, Reverend Mother, on such short notice," Welner greeted her.

There's just a touch of sarcasm in that, Clete thought.

The nun who'd answered the convent door had told them the Mother Superior's schedule was full for the day and they would have to make an appointment to see her when she was free, possibly tomorrow. After Welner told her his business with the Mother Superior was quite important, the nun had reluctantly disappeared through a door and left them standing for fifteen minutes in the cold and chairless foyer before finally returning to announce, "Follow me, please."

"You're always welcome in this house of God, Father," Mother Superior said.

And there was sarcasm in that, too. What the hell is going on here?

"This is Don Cletus Frade, Reverend Mother," Welner said. "And la Senora Dorotea Mallin de Frade."

That got Mother Superior's attention. She stared intently at Clete for thirty seconds, then said, "Yes."

"How do you do?" Clete said politely.

"So this is how you turned out," Mother Superior said. "Your mother would be pleased."

"Excuse me?"

"I can see your father in you," she said. "But there is fortunately much more of your mother."

This seemed to please her.

"Are you a Christian?" she asked.

"You knew my mother?"

"We were dear friends," she said. "I asked if you were a Christian."

"I didn't know you knew Cletus's mother," Welner said.

"Respectfully, Father, there's probably a good deal you don't know," Mother Superior said. "Well, did whoever raised you bring you to our Lord and Savior?"

"How did you know my mother?"

"I asked whether you are Christian or not."

"If you're asking if I'm Roman Catholic, no."

"I was afraid that would happen. I have never been able, and I have prayed, to forgive your father for abandoning you."

"My father did not abandon me," Clete said softly.

Dorotea's eyes showed alarm. She knew that when her husband was really angry, he spoke so softly it was hard sometimes to hear what he said.

"What would you call it?" Mother Superior asked. "When your mother died, he returned from the United States without you. He never came here again. When I finally saw him in Buenos Aires and asked about you, he said you were none of my business. Actually, his words were 'It's none of your goddamn business.' Then he walked out of the room. I never saw him or heard from him again."

"Why did you think he might feel that way?" Clete asked very softly.

"I told you, your mother and I were dear friends."

"How did that happen?"

"When your father and mother were first married, they spent a good deal of their time here. Your mother loved Casa Montagna. She came to a retreat here at the convent, and we met. She knew that she was ill, so we prayed together for the safe delivery of her first child--you--and rejoiced together when that happened."

Clete looked at Welner.

"Obviously, you didn't know about this?"

The priest shook his head.

"Let me tell you about my father," Clete said, still speaking very softly. "He didn't abandon me. There were two factors involved. One was my grandfather, my mother's father. He could not find it in his heart--and still doesn't--to forgive the Catholic Church for convincing my mother that contraception was a sin, even when another pregnancy would probably kill her. As it did.

"When my mother died, and my father tried to bring me to Argentina, my grandfather stopped him and had him deported. When my father reentered the United States from Mexico with the intent to take me, my grandfather had him arrested, and my father spent ninety days in chains on a Texas road gang for illegal entry. My grandfather had my father's visa revoked so that he could never again legally enter the United States. It was implied that my mother's father would have my father killed if he again returned and tried to take me.

"My father could have, of course, made an effort to kidnap me, and he told me that he had considered this seriously. But finally he realized that he couldn't, even shouldn't, try to raise an infant by himself. There were two female relatives who could. One was my Aunt Martha, my mother's brother's wife, a good solid woman, and the other was his sister, and my father knew Beatriz was a fruitcake."

"Cletus!" Dorotea exclaimed.

Clete looked at her, then back at the Mother Superior, and despite not trusting his voice as his anger rose, went on: "My father decided that what was best for me was my Aunt Martha. And he was right. You have nothing to forgive him for. And as far as abandoning me is concerned, not only did he not marry the woman he loved for the rest of his life, because your country's absurd rules of inheritance would have kept him from leaving me everything he owned, but he hired people to keep an eye on me. He knew every time I fell off my horse. The shelves in his study at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo are lined with scrapbooks about me, and the walls covered with pictures of me."

Clete felt his throat constrict, cleared it, then finished: "And as far as forgiving people is concerned, my father told me he long ago had forgiven my grandfather for what the man had done to him. He said in his shoes he would have done the same thing."

Mother Superior looked at him for a long moment.

"Your mother, may she rest in peace, would be pleased to know you were reunited with your father," she said finally.

"Are we through here?" Frade said sharply, and stood.

"I thought you came here seeking my help," Mother Superior said.

"Sit down, darling," Dorotea ordered softly.

Father Welner made a Sit down gesture. After a moment, Frade made a face, then slowly sank back in his seat.

"We have a woman with us who is mentally ill," Welner began. "She needs not only care but . . . it's rather delicate, Mother."

"Who is she?" Mother Superior asked.

"I'll tell you who she is," Frade said. "And if you let your mouth run, her death will be on your conscience--"

"Cletus!" Dorotea said warningly.

"She's a German, a Nazi, and if the Germans find out where she is, they will do their best to kill her and her husband--and maybe anyone else who gets in their way."

"What's your connection with her?" Mother Superior asked after a very long moment.

"Aside from telling you I'm an American intelligence officer, that's none of your goddamn business."

"I find it hard to believe the Germans would kill a woman," Mother Superior said.

"Why not? They murdered my father, and they sort of liked him."

"Your father was murdered by the Germans? I heard he was killed in a robbery attempt."

"He was murdered in cold blood at the order of the same bastards who have tried hard to kill me twice, the last time yesterday."

He saw the looks on Welner's and Dorotea's faces.

"No, I haven't lost my mind. Since the Germans know who I am, and Colonel Martin knows what I do for a living, who are we trying to keep it a secret from?"

"There was another attempt on your life yesterday?" Father Welner said.

"Three guys in front of the house on Avenida Coronel Diaz," Clete confirmed. "Rodriguez put two of them down, and I got the third one." He looked at Mother Superior. "The story in La Nacion said the police killed them during a robbery attempt."

"You didn't say anything," Welner said.

"Rodriguez?" Mother Superior asked. "Enrico Rodriguez? Is that who you're talking about? Your father's--what's that term?--batman?"

"I don't know if he was my father's batman or not," Frade said. "But he was one of my father's two true friends."

"Father Welner being the other?" she asked.

Frade nodded.

"Are you aware, Cletus," Mother Superior said, "that Enrico's sister Marianna took care of you from the day you were born until your mother went to the United States?"

Frade nodded. "Yes, I am. La Senora Rodriguez de Pellano was my housekeeper in the house across from the Hipodromo on Libertador. She had her throat cut in my kitchen the night the assassins came after me the first time."

"I hadn't heard that," Mother Superior said as she crossed herself. Then she added, "Where is Enrico now?"

"At the estancia with the German woman," Clete replied.

"And what precisely is the nature of the German woman's illness?"

"She's crazy," Frade said.

"Damn it, Cletus!" Dorotea said in exasperation.

Clete, unbowed, explained: "Yesterday, she told her sole surviving son that he's a traitor who will burn in hell for all eternity. Doesn't that sound a little crazy to you?"

"Her son is with her?" Mother Superior asked.

"And her husband," Welner said.

"And six of my men, in case the Germans learn where they are and come to kill all three."

A moment later, the door to the office opened and a nun--this time a huge one, reminding Clete of The Other Dorotea--stepped inside.

She had to be waiting outside, and somehow Mother Superior summoned her.

"Yes, Reverend Mother?"

"Please ask Sister Monica to select three very reliable sisters to deal with a woman suffering from mental illness. Ask them to pack enough clothing for three or four days. Bring a van around. Put my medical bag in it. I will drive."

"Yes, Reverend Mother."

The huge nun left, carefully closing the door behind her.

"That will take a few minutes," Mother Superior said. "There's no reason for everyone to wait for me. I know my way out there. And if you would be so good, Father, to hear my confession while we wait?"

[THREE]

Casa Montagna

Estancia Don Guillermo

Km 40.4, Provincial Route 60

Mendoza Province, Argentina

1915 14 August 1943

Darkness had fallen, but there was enough light from the headlights for Clete to be able to see the white stone kilometer markers along the road as the resident manager of Estancia Don Guillermo--whose name, if he had ever known it, Clete had forgotten--drove the Lincoln down the macadam road.

They were now at Km 39.8.

That means we're point-six kilometer from where we'll turn onto Estancia Don Guillermo, and thirty-nine-point-eight kilometers from where they started counting, probably at a marker in the Mendoza town square.

That's not saying we're thirty-nine-point-eight kilometers from the center of town, but that we're thirty-nine-point-eight kilometers down the road from the marker.

The way this road weaves, we're a lot closer as the bird flies than that.

Why the hell do people say that?

"As the bird flies" means in a straight line? I've never seen a bird fly more than twenty-five yards in a straight line.

Jesus Christ, it's odd thoughts time! And that means C. Frade's tail is really dragging.

I have every right in the world to have my tail dragging. Not only did I just fly from the States across Central and South America, and then fly down here, I also just threw Tio Juan out of Uncle Willy's house, had people try to kill me, and--and what else?

Doesn't matter what else.

I have every right to be tired, and I damn sure am.

What does matter, however, is that when my tail is really dragging, I tend to do really stupid things. Like, for example, being a little less than charming to Mother Superior at the convent and then actually getting ready to walk out of her office.

If Dorotea and Welner hadn't stopped me, I think I would have, and that would have really screwed up things.

Watch it, Little Cletus. You just can't afford to screw something up.

Ten seconds later, the Lincoln slowed and turned off the highway. Fifty meters off the road, there was a gate in a wire fence. Beyond the fence, the headlights lit up rows of grapevines as far as he could see.

There was a Ford Model A pickup truck inside the fence. A man got out of it, walked to the gate, and swung it open. The Lincoln's lights flashed over the pickup as they drove through the gate, and Frade saw there was a second man standing by the side of the truck, a Mauser rifle cradled in his arms. This one he recognized. He was one of the peones he'd brought from Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.

When they drove past, the man saluted. Clete returned it.

They drove for a kilometer, perhaps a little more, through endless rows of grapevines. The road suddenly became quite steep--the resident manager had to shift into second gear--and made a winding ascent of a mountainside.

And then there was a massive wooden gate blocking the road.

But there's no fence or anything to the right of the gate.

Why have a gate if people can just drive around it?

He looked out his side window and saw why people could not just drive around this gate. Three feet from the side of the car a stone curb marked the side of the road. Beyond the curb there was a precipitous drop-off; he could not see the bottom.

Well, since there's a granite mountain on the left and nothing but air on the right.

I guess that if they don't open the gate, you either blow it up or you don't get in.

The gate swung inward as they approached it.

There was another Model A pickup with another man holding a rifle just inside the gate, and again Clete recognized him as one of his men from Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. This one didn't salute as the Lincoln inched carefully past the Ford.

The road now was so steep that the estancia manager did not shift out of low.

They turned a curve and suddenly were on a level plateau perhaps three hundred meters wide and two hundred meters long. A low stone wall on three sides suggested--it was too dark to see--a drop-off like the one beside the gate.

At the far end of the plateau, with what looked like a light in every window--and there were a lot of windows--was the house and its outbuildings.

The main house was three stories and red-tile-roofed. The third floor had dormer windows, and the roof extended over a verandah whose pillars seemed vine-covered. The Andes Mountains were on the horizon behind it, bathed in moonlight.

And now we know why they call it Casa Montagna.

That is indeed a mountain house.

"It's beautiful!" Dorotea said from the backseat.

Enrico Rodriguez, Madison Sawyer, and Gonzalo Delgano were standing on the verandah.

If they're waiting for us, they knew we were coming, and that means there's a telephone at either or both gates.

Nobody's going to get in here by surprise.

"No nuns?" Sawyer greeted them as he waved them into the house.

Inside the door was a foyer. In the center was a fountain in a circular pool.

"Classy," Frade said.

"This whole place is classy," Sawyer said. "And that fountain has no pumps. Enrico showed me. It's fed by a mountain stream. There's a tank, and that provides the pressure. And after the water goes through the fountain, it's fed back into the stream and goes down the mountain."

"Fascinating," Frade said.

Enrico showed him how the fountain works? That means that Enrico knows this place pretty well.

And never told me about it.

What the hell else can I own?

"I don't suppose that at a vineyard there's a pump spitting out wine?" Frade said.

"No, but there's a very nice bar in there," Sawyer said, pointing.

"Why don't we have a look at that?" Frade said.

"The nuns should be here any minute," Dorotea said.

Translation: Now is not wine time.

"Where's Frau Frogger?" Frade asked.

Sawyer pointed to the left.

"There's an apartment there with barred windows and lockable doors. Enrico put her in there. Her husband and son are with her, and one of our guys is sitting in the foyer outside. Stein's setting up the SIGABA and the Collins."

"Well, as soon as I have a glass of wine, I'll have a look at both," Frade said.

Dorotea shook her head in resignation.

Clete walked through the door that Sawyer had indicated and found himself in a comfortable room, two walls of which were lined with books, one half of a third wall with oil paintings and framed photographs and half with a bar, complete with stools. The fourth wall held French doors that opened onto a rear patio and provided a panoramic view of the Andes.

Clete went behind the bar and looked through the bottles of wine in a rack on the wall, finally pulling out a Don Guillermo Cabernet Sauvignon. He took a quick look at the label and then a longer look.

"My God!" he said. "This says one of 2,505, 1917. Nineteen seventeen?"

"I think it gets better with age, like Kentucky bourbon," Sawyer said.

"Either that or we have a bottle of twenty-six-year-old vinegar," Clete said, and fed the bottle to a huge and ornate cork-pulling device mounted on the wall. He poured some in a glass and sipped.

"Mother Superior and the nuns will be here any minute," Dorotea said.

"So you keep saying," Clete replied. "Well, don't worry. I won't give her any of this twenty-six-year-old vinegar."

He poured his glass half full and took a healthy swallow.

"Terrible, absolutely terrible," he said. "I don't think you'd like this at all, Polo."

"Why don't you let me decide for myself?"

"Because anyone who has volunteered to jump out of a perfectly functioning airplane is obviously incapable of making wise decisions."

Sawyer snatched the bottle from him and poured wine into a glass.

"Nectar of the gods," Sawyer pronounced a moment later.

Frade found more glasses under the bar and poured wine for Delgano and Rodriguez.

"And there's a whole wall of it," Frade said, pointing at the wine rack. "I'm starting to like this place."

And then his eyes fell on a silver-framed photograph on a table.

He walked quickly to the table and picked it up.

"What, honey?" Dorotea asked.

"My parents' wedding picture," he said softly.

He extended it to her.

"Saint Louis Cathedral, Jackson Square, New Orleans," Frade said.

Dorotea examined it and then handed it to Sawyer. It showed the bride, in a long-trained gown, and the groom and the other males in the rather large wedding party in formal morning clothes, standing in front of an altar.

"Is that Peron?" Sawyer asked.

"That's Ol' Juan Domingo," Frade said. "The fat Irishman is the cardinal archbishop. Also present are my grandfather, whose uncontrollable joy is evident on his face. And my Uncle Jim and my Aunt Martha, who raised me." He turned to Enrico. "You were there, too, right?"

"Si, Don Cletus."

"How come you're not in the picture?"

Enrico's face showed he didn't like the question; he ignored it.

"Since they didn't expect us, Don Cletus," Enrico said, "there was no food, or not enough, but I have sent to Senor Alvarez's home for a cook and food for tonight and the morning."

Whose home?

Ah, the resident manager, the guy who was driving the Lincoln.

Where the hell does he fit in here?

"I hope that wasn't an imposition, Senor Alvarez," Dorotea said politely.

"How could it be an imposition, senora?" Alvarez asked. "The cook will stay here for as long as necessary. . . ."

He paused, making the statement a question.

"We'll be here--in and out of here--indefinitely," Clete said. "Chief Pilot Delgano and I will be in and out on a regular basis in connection with South American Airways business, and Mr. Stein and Mr. Sawyer with the wine business. And I brought six men from Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo with me, who will also be here indefinitely."

"There is plenty of room, Don Cletus," Alvarez said. "There are seventeen rooms in Casa Montagna, in addition to the . . . special suite. And, depending how you wish them set up, more than a dozen bedrooms in the outbuildings."

"The men I brought with me can stay in the outbuildings," Frade said. "And I will probably bring another half-dozen."

"Don Cletus," Enrico said. "There are already a half-dozen men here. All from the Husares. I have spoken to them. . . ."

Alvarez saw the questioning look on Frade's face, but he mistook it to mean Frade was wondering why there were a half-dozen old soldiers in a house rarely occupied.

Alvarez explained: "There are a number of works of art in Casa Montagna, Don Cletus, that el Coronel wanted to make sure were protected, as the house was so rarely used."

That, however, wasn't the question in Clete's mind. He asked, of Enrico, the one that was: "You knew all about this place, didn't you?"

Rodriguez nodded.

"But you never mentioned it to me. Why?"

"I knew you would come here eventually. That would be the time to tell you."

The telephone rang.

Enrico went to a small table. There were two telephones on it; one was an ordinary--if, to Clete, old-fashioned--device and the other apparently the Argentine version of the U.S. Army Signal Corps EE-8 field telephone. Enrico picked up the latter, listened, then pushed the butterfly switch and snarled, sergeantlike, something into it, then put the handset back in its leather case.

"Mother Superior and the nuns are at the lower gate," he announced.

Clete asked the question that had popped into his mind when he saw the military field telephone.

"What's that military telephone doing in here?"

"It is connected to the lower and upper gates right now, but there is a field switchboard."

"That's not what I asked."

Enrico looked uncomfortable.

"When el Coronel was leading Operation Blue," he said finally, making reference to the coup d'etat that would have, had he not been assassinated, made el Coronel Frade the president of Argentina, "we needed Casa Montagna."

"And is there anything else you'd like to tell me about that?"

"El Coronel knew this was the logical place for it, but as he did not wish to come here, he sent me to set it up."

"A logical place for what?"

"There is a cache of weapons in the basement, Don Cletus."

"What kind of weapons?"

"Enough to equip four troops of the Husares de Pueyrredon, Don Cletus. El Coronel was concerned that they would not be available if they were needed; that someone might seize the regimental and troop armories. So he cached enough here . . ."

"You're talking about rifles, pistols, that sort of thing?"

"And some machine guns, Don Cletus. Even some mortars and hand grenades. And, of course, the ammunition for the weapons. That is really why the old Husares are here. To keep an eye on the cache, so that it wouldn't fall into the wrong hands, until I could tell you about it and you could decide what you want to do about it."

"Enrico, if you weren't so ugly, I think I would kiss you," Frade said.

"You should not say things like that, Don Cletus."

Frade turned to Alvarez. "Did you know about this?"

"I am proud to say, Don Cletus, that your father took me into his confidence."

"It is so, Don Cletus," Enrico confirmed. "El Senor Alvarez may be trusted."

"I'm very glad to hear that," Clete said, meaning it, and then went on: "Senor Alvarez, it is very important that no one learns that la Senora Fischer is here. Her life would be in danger otherwise."

Alvarez nodded. "No one, Don Cletus, will know anything beyond that the sisters of Santa Maria del Pilar are caring for an ill woman."

"I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop," Cletus said. "As I'm sure it will. But what I think I'm going to do now is have another glass of this twenty-six-year-old nectar of the gods to give me the courage to face Mother Superior."

"Cletus, for God's sake!" Dorotea said. "What is el Senor Alvarez going to think of you?"

"I have already made up my mind, Dona Dorotea," Alvarez said. "He is his father's son."

The Mother Superior of the Mendoza chapter of the Little Sisters of Santa Maria del Pilar marched into the library four minutes later, trailed by the enormous nun who had been in her office and three others. Father Welner brought up the rear.

I know who the big nun is, Clete decided. She's the convent version of Enrico.

"Enrico," Reverend Mother ordered, "you will please make yourself available to me when we finish the business immediately at hand."

"Yes, Reverend Mother."

"I will introduce myself to these other gentlemen at that time. For now you have met Sister Carolina." She pointed to the huge nun. "These sisters are Sister Monica, Sister Theresa, and Sister Dolores. Sisters, this is Don Cletus Frade and la Senora Frade. Enrico, you know."

The nuns wordlessly bobbed their heads.

"You will get to meet the others later," she went on. "For now get yourselves settled. You know where to go. Sister Monica, you will decide who goes on duty now. When you have done so, and your selection is settled, send her to the apartment. If Father and I are inside, wait for us to come out." She turned to Father Welner. "Are you ready, Father?"

"Yes, Reverend Mother."

With that they all marched out of the library.

Clete smiled.

"I'm almost afraid to ask, darling," Dorotea said. "But what are you thinking?"

He grunted. "When I was in Los Angeles just now, I heard that since February there have been women in the Marine Corps. I was thinking that Mother Superior would make a fine gunnery sergeant."

"What the hell, Clete," Sawyer said. "Why not? They've had women in the Army and the Navy for a long time."

Frade began, very cheerfully, to sing to the melody of "Mademoiselle from Armentieres": "'The WACs and WAVEs will win the war, parlez-vous. The WACs and WAVEs will win the war, parlez-vous. The WACs and WAVEs will win the war, so what the hell are we fighting for? Inky dinky parlez-vous.' "

Sawyer laughed. Dorotea glared at him and asked, "How much of that wine have you had?"

"Not as much as I'm going to," he said, and reached for another bottle of Don Guillermo Cabernet Sauvignon 1917.

Mother Superior returned much sooner than Frade thought she would, this time trailed by Father Welner, Oberstleutnant Frogger, and Herr Wilhelm Frogger. But no nuns.

"Enrico," she said, "I didn't know about Marianna until Cletus told me. I am so very sorry."

"Marianna and El Coronel are now at peace with all the angels, Mother," Enrico said. "I have avenged their murder."

" 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,' " Welner quoted.

"I have avenged them," Enrico repeated.

Mother Superior changed the subject: "Frau Frogger--"

"Frau Fischer," Cletus interrupted her. "Fischer. There's nobody named Frogger here."

Mother Superior looked at him very coldly.

He met her eyes. "The name is Fischer. And make sure your nuns don't fo rget that."

"Cletus!" Dorotea started to protest.

Mother Superior stopped her with an upraised hand, then went on: "La Senora Fischer, in addition to what else might be troubling her, is not only exhausted but has apparently been beaten."

"That was after she tried to kill a woman with a fireplace poker," Clete said. "The woman she tried to kill didn't like it much."

"So Father Welner told me," Mother Superior said calmly. "She's lost a tooth and may require dental attention. We can deal with that if it becomes a problem. What she needs now is rest. Sister Monica will be with her overnight. If she awakens, I have prescribed--given Sister Monica--a sedative to give her. I'll try to talk to her tomorrow afternoon."

Staff Sergeant Sigfried Stein came into the library. When no one said anything to him, he announced cheerfully, "I bring greetings from Vint Hill Farms. We're up. And to the estancia."

"Good man," Frade said.

"You must be Major Stein," Mother Superior said.

Stein looked at Frade, who nodded.

"Yes, ma'am," Stein said.

"Both la Senora Fischer's husband and her son have told me that the very sight of you triggers feelings--uncontrollable feelings, irrational feelings--of rage in la Senora Fischer."

"I don't think she likes Jews very much," Stein said.

"And you are a Jew?"

"Guilty," Stein said.

"What is your first--I almost said 'Christian'--name?"

Stein looked at Frade again, and Frade nodded again.

"Sigfried," he said, not very pleasantly. "Jewish first name Sigfried."

"May I call you 'Sigfried'? Or would you prefer 'Major Stein'?"

"Siggie is what people call me," he said finally.

"Forgive me, Siggie," Mother Superior said. "I have to ask you this: Have you even done anything to her--said something cruel, or struck her, restrained her, anything like that?"

"No, ma'am," Stein said. "Never. Not that I haven't been tempted." He heard what he had blurted and quickly added: "Sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

Mother Superior made an It doesn't matter gesture with both hands.

She said: "I thought I knew that when I looked into your eyes. You have very kind eyes. Siggie, if you're willing, you can be very important in bringing la Senora Fischer back to good health."

"Excuse me?"

"We don't have to get into the details now. I just need to know if you'd be willing to help."

Stein looked at Frade, whose face showed nothing.

"If it's all right with the major," Stein said finally, "then okay. I'll do what I can."

"It would help, Siggie," Frade said. "Having her craz . . . like she is now isn't doing us any good."

"Okay. Just tell me what you want me to do."

"I'll have to give it some thought," Mother Superior said. "Knowing that you're willing to help will be useful."

She turned to Delgano and Sawyer.

"And you are?"

They introduced themselves.

"What is that you're drinking, Cletus?" Mother Superior asked.

"Wine," Frade said. "They make it from grapes."

"You've obviously had more of it than you should," she said.

"You're right, Clete," Sawyer said. "Mother Superior would make a fine gunnery sergeant."

"May I offer you a glass?" Clete said.

"What is it?" she asked, and went to the bar, picked up the bottle, and examined the label.

"This has to be vinegar," she said.

Clete shook his head. He poured wine an inch deep in a glass and offered it to her.

Surprising him, she took it, smelled it, took a small sip, swirled it around in her mouth, then swallowed. She pushed the glass to him.

He poured three inches of wine into the glass.

"'Take a little wine for thy stomach's sake,'" he said. "That's from Saint Timothy."

"Yes, I know," she said. "You took that from there?"

She indicated the wine rack.

He nodded.

"It's hard to believe, but that wine must have been there the last time I was in this room. The last time you and I were in this room."

"I've never been in this room before in my life," Clete said.

"Yes, you have. Your mother put you on that couch"--she pointed--"and then put two of those chairs"--she pointed again--"up against it so you wouldn't roll over and fall on the floor. You were a very active baby."

Frade didn't say anything.

"It was the night your mother and father took the train to Buenos Aires to take the Panagra flight to Miami. The train left at eight, so we had an early supper in here. That was the last time I saw you until you came to the convent today."

Clete didn't reply.

Mother Superior didn't quite gulp the wine, but the glass was nearly empty much sooner than Clete expected it to be. Clete picked up the bottle, but she put her hand over the glass.

"I have to drive," she said.

"Why don't you take a couple of bottles--hell, a dozen bottles--with you?"

She didn't reply to that. Instead, she said, "I was just thinking that despite what you think, rather than coming here for the first time, you are really coming home. And that Casa Montagna, after waiting so long for that to happen, has really been expecting you, is prepared for you."

What the hell is she talking about?

Mother Superior turned to Dorotea.

"How far are you along?"

"Six months," Dorotea said.

"I'll have a look at you tomorrow. Everything, so far as you know, is going well?"

Dorotea nodded.

Mother Superior went behind the bar, took two bottles of the Cabernet Sauvignon from the rack, and put them into her medical bag.

"Sister Caroline is not impressed with the wisdom of Saint Timothy," Mother Superior said. "And I don't like to upset her."

Clete chuckled.

"Enrico," Mother Superior said, "if you were to somehow wrap or box or whatever a half-dozen bottles of the wine so that it doesn't look like half a dozen bottles of wine, and put them in the van when I come here tomorrow, I would be grateful to you."

"Si, Reverend Mother. I will do it."

There was half an inch of wine left in Mother Superior's glass. She drained it and walked out of the room.

"That is a very nice woman," Dorotea said.

"That is a very tough woman," Frade said admiringly.

He turned to Sawyer.

"Do they teach Army officers how to lay in a machine gun? Fields of fire, that sort of thing?"

"Only the brighter ones," Sawyer said. "Parachute officers, for example."

"First thing in the morning, get with Enrico, see what's available, reconnoiter the area, and let me know what you think should be done."

"Yes, sir," Sawyer said.

"I have already done that, Don Cletus," Enrico said.

"Okay, then show Captain Sawyer how things are done by the Husares de Pueyrredon."

Enrico nodded.

"When do we eat?" Frade asked.

"Half an hour, Don Cletus."

"Which I will spend writing the after-action report for Colonel Graham."

"Do you have to do that tonight?" Dorotea asked.

"Yeah, baby, I do."

Sending the report was a three-stage process. First, Clete wrote it on a typewriter. Then he edited what he had written, using a pencil. Dorotea then took this and re typed it on the keyboard of the SIGABA device. This caused a strip of perforated paper, which now held the encrypted report, to stream out of the SIGABA. Siggie Stein, after making sure that the SIGABA device at Vint Hill Farms Station was ready to receive, fed the strip of paper to the Collins transceiver.

Not quite a minute later, Stein reported that the message had been received in Virginia.

Frade nodded. "Good. Now, let's eat."

Clete had the same uncomfortable feeling--one of intrusion--as he entered the master suite--now his--of Casa Montagna that he had felt the first time he had moved into his father's bedroom in the big house on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.

But now it was worse.

There had been nothing of his mother's in the master suite at the estancia.

Here, before a mirrored dressing table, were vials of perfume, jars of cosmetics, a comb, and a hairbrush with blond hair still on it.

And that got worse.

He pulled open a drawer in a chest of drawers and found himself looking at underwear that had to be his mother's.

He slammed the drawer closed.

Dorotea came out of the bathroom in a negligee.

"There's a set of straight razors in there, and a mug of shaving soap," she announced. "All dried out, of course, but I put water in it. That might make it usable. Who knows?"

Clete didn't reply.

"It looks as if they expected to come back," Dorotea said.

"Yeah."

"I wonder what's in here?" Dorotea said, pulled open a door, and gasped. "Oh, God! Clete, look at this!"

He went to the door and looked in.

There was a crib, and infant's toys, and a table--he had no idea what they called it--where an infant could be washed and dried and have diapers changed. And shelves, with stacks of folded cotton diapers and a large can of Johnson's baby powder.

"Jesus Christ!" he said, almost under his breath.

"I wondered what she was talking about," Dorotea said.

"What who was talking about?"

"Mother Superior, when she said you were really coming home. That this house has really been expecting you, is prepared for you."

He looked at her but said nothing.

"She should have said for us," Dorotea said. "For us and our baby."

She saw the look on his face.

"I want to have our baby here, darling. I want to wash him in there, where your mother washed you, and change his nappy with your nappies."

He tried to ask, "How can you be sure the baby's a him?"

But only three words came out before he lost his voice, and his chest heaved, and he realized he was crying.

Dorotea went to him, held him against her breast, and stroked his hair.

[FOUR]

Office of the Deputy Director for Western

Hemisphere Operations

Office of Strategic Services

National Institutes of Health Building

Washington, D.C.

0720 15 August 1943

A second lieutenant of the U.S. Army Signal Corps was sitting in one of the chairs in the outer office when Colonel A. F. Graham, uncommonly in uniform, came to work--as usual, before his secretary had gotten there.

Lieutenant Leonard Fischer stood and more or less came to attention. He was holding a sturdy leather briefcase. Graham saw that he was attached to the briefcase with a handcuff and chain, and that one of the lower pockets of his uniform blouse sagged--as if, for example, it held a Colt Model 1911A1 .45 ACP pistol.

"Good morning, Fischer," Graham said as he waved the young officer ahead of him into his office. "Dare I hope we have heard from Gaucholand?"

"Yes, sir," Fischer said, and held up the briefcase.

"And?"

"That Marine has landed, sir, and the situation is well in hand."

Graham smiled at him, waved him into a chair, and waited for him to detach the briefcase and unlock it. He took from it a manila envelope, stamped TOP SECRET in several places in large red letters, then got up and walked to Graham's desk and handed it to him.

"I would offer you a cup of coffee, Len, but I don't think there is any."

"Not a problem, sir."

Graham tore open the envelope, took two sheets of paper from it, and started to read from them.

From previous messages, Graham knew that BIS was Gonzalo Delgano, the Bureau of Interior Security man assigned to watch Frade and South American Airways; that Galahad (the courageous knight on the white horse) was Major von Wachtstein; that JohnPaul was Kapitan zur See Boltitz (after naval hero John Paul Jones); and that Tio Hank was Frade's Uncle Humberto Duarte, managing director of the Banco de Inglaterra y Argentina.

If Tio Hank's going to confirm Grape history--that Frogger is a South African winegrower--that means Frade probably told him what's going on. I don't know if that was smart or not.

But it's his call. I am sitting behind a desk in Washington.

Why do I think Cletus had more than a little grape when he wrote this? Because that's the code name he gave Colonel Frogger?

The question was answered in the next several paragraphs.

Graham knew the Tourists were the Froggers, Tio Juan was Juan Domingo Peron, Sidekick was Suboficial Mayor Rodriguez, and Beermug was Staff Sergeant Stein.

How in hell will he keep what must have been a hell of a firefight and six dead Germans from coming out?

Jedgar, from J. Edgar Hoover, was el Coronel Martin of the BIS.

Christ, they tried to kill him again!

And he's right. Allen will be interested in the Argentine agricultural attache in Berlin.

Unless he already knows him. Which is likely.

Not only was he half in the bag when he started to write this, he obviously had a couple of belts while he was writing it.

And the one thing I can't do is let Donovan see it.

"It strays a little from the form and substance one expects from an official after-action report, wouldn't you say, Lieutenant Fischer?"

"Just a little, sir."

"Things like that tend to upset Director Donovan. So, what I'm going to do, just as soon as my secretary gets here, is dictate a synopsis . . ."

As if on cue, the office door opened and his secretary, a gray-haired middle-aged woman, walked in.

"Good morning, Colonel," she said.

". . . and send that to him," Graham finished. "Good morning, Grace. Would you get your pad and pencil, please?"

"Before or after I get you your wake-up cup of coffee?"

"Coffee won't be necessary. Lieutenant Fischer and I are going to have breakfast at the Army-Navy Club and put to rest those nasty rumors that the Army and Marine Corps don't talk to each other."

She backed out of the office and returned a moment later with a steno graphic notepad in hand.

"Interoffice memorandum, Secret, dictated but not signed, to the director," Graham dictated. "Subject: Major Cletus Frade, After-Action Report of. The Marine has landed, situation well in hand. Respectfully submitted."

"Do I get to see it?" Grace asked.

"Not only do you get to see it, but after you have it microfilmed and send that over to State for inclusion in today's diplomatic pouch to Mr. Dulles in Berne, you get to file it someplace where it can't possibly come to the attention of the director."

She shook her head, and said, "Yes, sir."

"Give the nice lady your briefcase, Len. And the pistol. We don't want to scare people at the Army-Navy Club."