Top Secret

[ONE]

A captain wearing the aiguillette and lapel insignia of an aide-de-camp to a brigadier general got out of an armchair in the lobby as Rachel and Jimmy entered. He walked up to them.

“Paul,” Rachel said.

“Rachel, the general said if you don’t have time to wait for the colonel in the tearoom, we can take him into Frankfurt when this is over.”

“I’ll wait,” Rachel said. “Paul, this is Captain Cronley.”

The captain smiled and put out his hand. “Who I will now take off your hands. If you’ll come with me, Captain?”

“Thank you for everything, Mrs. Schumann,” Cronley said.

“My pleasure, Captain. Perhaps we’ll see one another again.”

The captain led Cronley across the lobby to a corridor, and then down the corridor to a door. There were two men standing by the door. They were wearing blue triangle insignia; Cronley guessed they were CIC agents. One of them opened the door and the other waved Cronley through it.

He found himself in what he decided was a private dining room. Three tables had been put together end-to-end at the far side of the room. There were more than a dozen officers at them. One of them, in the center, was Rear Admiral Souers. There were two brigadier generals — one of whom was General Greene. And Colonel Mattingly with three other full colonels. And a Marine Corps lieutenant colonel—

Jesus, that’s Clete! What the hell is he doing here?

—then several other lieutenant colonels, including Lieutenant Colonel Schumann, whom Cronley had not seen since the incident at Kloster Grünau, and then several majors.

Some were wearing SHAEF shoulder insignia and a few had the new EUCOM shoulder insignia, a variation of the Supreme Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force flaming sword insignia, made necessary when SHAEF had become European Command. The rest had what looked like a striped ball on their shoulders. This was the insignia of Army Ground Forces, which adorned the shoulders of many warriors assigned to the Pentagon.

“I’m glad you could finally find time for us, Cronley,” Admiral Souers said. His tone was amused, not sarcastic. Several of the officers at the tables chuckled. “Take a seat, son.”

Souers indicated a row of a dozen straight-backed chairs against the wall behind Cronley. He had just settled into one when Souers stood and barked, “Attention on deck!”

Three men entered the room.

“Keep your seats, please, gentlemen,” the tallest among them said, and then, smiling at Cronley, took the straight-backed chair next to him.

He took a pack of Chesterfields from the pocket of a linen golf jacket. By the time he got a cigarette to his lips, one of the officers with him, a full colonel wearing the aiguillette and lapel insignia of an aide-de-camp to a general of the Army, had a flaming Zippo waiting.

“Good morning, sir,” Souers said.

“Admiral. It’s good to see you,” General of the Army Dwight David Eisenhower said.

“With your permission, sir?” Souers asked.

Ike gave permission with a wave of the cigarette in his hand.

Jimmy saw the general’s fingers were deeply yellow tobacco-stained.

“I think, with a couple of exceptions,” Souers said, “we all know one another. The exceptions are my Marine aide-de-camp. While Lieutenant Colonel Frade is a Marine — a distinguished one, he has the Navy Cross — he’s not really my aide. That’s to keep people from asking questions. Colonel Frade has been running OSS operations in the Southern Cone of South America.

“The other officer who needs introduction is sitting next to General Eisenhower. Not one of the colonels, the captain. Captain Cronley is the officer charged with protecting Gehlen and Company.”

Cronley saw Cletus Frade looking at him. Frade’s face was expressionless.

What did I expect? That he’d wave at me, or wink, with General Eisenhower sitting next to me?

Frade nodded his head, just perceptibly. Cronley, deciding Eisenhower couldn’t see him, winked.

“I sort of thought that’s who you probably were,” General Eisenhower said, turning to Cronley. “The President told me what you did in South America. Well done, son. I’m glad I’ve had this chance to meet you.”

He gave Cronley his hand.

Cronley said, “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“How do I get this started?” Souers asked rhetorically. “First things first is usually a good idea.

“Everyone knows that the OSS is now history. When that happened, as you all know, the Research and Analysis Branch of the OSS was transferred to the State Department and everything else to the War Department, with orders to shut everything down as quickly as possible.

“There was an exception to this otherwise blanket order. The President ordered the War Department to continue certain OSS operations which he considered necessary in the national interest.

“The Strategic Services Unit under Brigadier General John Magruder”—Souers pointed to one of the one-stars at the table—“was established under the assistant chief of staff, Intelligence, and assumed responsibility for certain of these operations, the ones that could not be turned off like a lightbulb.

“About the most important, and most secret, of these operations has been variously known as Operation Gehlen, Operation Ost, and is now, or will shortly be, the South German Industrial Development Organization.

“Most of you know something about General Gehlen turning over to the OSS, specifically to Colonel Mattingly of OSS Forward”—he turned and pointed to Mattingly—“all the files and assets of Abwehr Ost, said assets including agents in place in the Kremlin and the names of NKGB agents who had infiltrated the Manhattan Project.

“What only a few of you know — and I really hope only a few — is the price General Gehlen asked, and we paid and are paying, for General Gehlen’s cooperation.”

He stopped and looked at Eisenhower.

“You’re on a spot, aren’t you, Admiral Souers?” Eisenhower asked.

He took a drag on his cigarette and then slowly exhaled the smoke through thoughtfully pursed lips.

“Okay,” Ike finally said. “And I offer this with the caveat that I’m prepared to deny it under oath, with both hands on a Bible. When Allen Dulles came to me and told me what Gehlen wanted, I knew I didn’t have the authority to give him what he wanted. So I went to the one man who had that authority, he heard me out, and then said, ‘Go ahead.’”

Cronley’s eyes slowly scanned the room.

Everybody knew he meant President Truman.

I wonder why he didn’t just say it?

“Thank you, sir,” Souers said, and then continued: “The price Gehlen demanded was the protection of his men, and their families — including those of his men who were Nazis — from the Soviets. We met that price, and are continuing to meet it.

“We hid — are hiding — some of Gehlen’s people in a former monastery in Bavaria and have moved some of them to Argentina.” He turned and looked at Colonel Schumann. “That’s the secret within the secret of Operation Ost. Some people, including the secretary of the Treasury, the Soviets themselves, the FBI, and Colonel Schumann, got wind of it somehow, and started looking into the operation. Schumann almost got shot when he got too close.

“That’s why you’re here today, Colonel. The rumor is true, Colonel. But from today your mission is to protect that secret, not make it known to all those people who with very good reason are furious that we’re protecting some very despicable people.

“It has been debated at the highest level whether the intelligence we have already received and will receive in the future is worth the price we have to pay for it. The commander in chief has concluded it is.

“Now, what are we doing here? What’s the purpose of this meeting?

“On January first, 1946, or shortly thereafter — in other words, two months from now — President Truman will establish by Presidential Finding an organization to be called the Central Intelligence Group. Congressional authority for the CIG will follow as quickly as that can be accomplished. It is the President’s intention to send my name to the Senate for confirmation as director of the CIG.

“In the interim, the President has given me responsibility for running what’s left of the OSS, and what has been transferred to the War Department until CIG is up and running.

“The CIG will be a peacetime version of the OSS. It will take over such things, including covert operations, such as Operation Ost.

“When the President told me of his plans, he said that one of his greatest concerns was the security of Operation Ost in the next two months. During, in other words, the final shutting down of the OSS and the transfer of General Magruder’s Strategic Services Unit in the Pentagon to the CIG.

“The very next day, the President asked me to represent him at the funeral services of a young woman killed in a tragic automobile accident. Her husband, whom the President knows and admires, is an officer serving overseas who could not return for the interment.”

“The President told me about your wife, Captain Cronley,” General Eisenhower said. “I’m very sorry, son.”

“Thank you, sir.”

I wonder if you’d feel so kindly toward me if you knew that when you flashed by that Town and Country station wagon on your way here, I was in it, not remembering my dead bride, but wondering how I could get into Mrs. Colonel Schumann’s pants.

“When I got to Texas,” Souers went on, “I found Colonel Frade there. The… deceased… young woman, I learned, was his cousin and he had flown up from Buenos Aires for the funeral. General Donovan had told me specifically that I should not be surprised at anything Colonel Frade did.

“So I called President Truman and told him Frade was in Texas and did the President want to see him about the next sixty-day problem before Frade returned to Argentina?

“The President replied that while he would be happy to meet with Colonel Frade, he thought it would be best to have a meeting with all the concerned parties, that he didn’t have to participate, and that, because most of the concerned parties were in Germany, the meeting should be held there—here—and as soon as possible.

“I said, ‘Yes, sir.’ And here we all are.”

He paused, visibly made up his mind, and then continued: “I said a moment ago that Colonel Frade had flown up from Buenos Aires for the interment of his cousin. I think it germane to tell you that he did so at the controls of a Lockheed Constellation of South American Airways.

“South American Airways, an Argentine corporation, is an OSS asset. Colonel Frade is the airline’s managing director — what we would call the president or chairman of the board. SAA has proved very useful in the discreet movement of people and certain files from Europe to Argentina.

“So I was not surprised when Colonel Frade suggested we use the SAA Constellation he’d flown to Midland to fly from there to Washington, pick up General Magruder and his people, and then fly to here.

“We did so. En route, Colonel Frade informed me that while he would have been happy to provide the aircraft free of charge, he could not do so because of Colonel Juan D. Perón.

“Currently Argentina’s secretary of Labor and Welfare, secretary of War, and vice president, Perón, in Frade’s judgment, is soon to become president of the Argentine Republic.

“He also sits on the board of directors of SAA, where, Frade tells me, he has been ‘making noises’ to the effect that SAA should be an Argentine government entity and not a ‘private capitalistic enterprise,’ especially one he strongly suspects is owned and run by American intelligence by whatever name.

“Frade has so far been able to keep Perón’s hands off SAA, but feels that Perón learning that SAA has been making pro bono, so to speak, flights for the U.S. government would likely permit him to seize SAA now, rather than waiting until he becomes president.

“The OSS funds remaining are just about exhausted, so one of the problems we are going to have to deal with here today is funding SAA so that we can keep it as long as possible. And then decide what to do when, inevitably, and most likely sooner than later, Perón takes it over.

“General Eisenhower, I think I have said everything I have to say right now. Is there anything you wish to add, sir?”

Eisenhower stood. He put a Chesterfield to his lips and his aide-de-camp produced the Zippo. Ike took a deep drag.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I think I can sum this up in a few words. The exigencies of the current political situation vis-à-vis the Soviets have laid on your shoulders one hell of a burden. I have every confidence that you will successfully deal with it, because I have, as the President does, absolute confidence in Admiral Souers and every officer in this room.” He paused. “Right down to the young captain beside me.” That earned him the chuckles he expected. “And now I hear the summons of the links. Thank you for coming.”

Eisenhower touched Cronley’s shoulder, smiled at him, and then walked out of the room. His aides followed.

The only reason he was here was to make sure everybody knows that what we’re doing has his and Truman’s approval.

Souers waited until the door had closed after Eisenhower, and then said: “A break is in order. There’s coffee and doughnuts in the tearoom, out the door, down the corridor, and turn right. And while you’re drinking your coffee, if you happened to introduce one another, that’d kill two birds with one stone. We’ll reconvene back here in half an hour.” He looked at his watch. “Say at eleven-thirty.”

Cronley saw that both Mattingly and Frade were walking toward him.

Jimmy thought that Frade looked just about as impressive in his uniform as Mattingly did in his.

Jesus, he really is a lieutenant colonel. I don’t think I took that in until just now, when I saw him in his Marine Corps uniform.

On the other hand, I really am a captain, and who would have believed that?

I have a hard time believing it, even looking in a mirror.

But Eisenhower called me “captain” and who am I to argue with a five-star?

Mattingly got to him first.

“Be very careful, Captain Cronley, about what you say, and remember the less you say about anything, the better.”

Clete arrived as Jimmy was saying, “Yes, sir.”

Mattingly left, but Clete had either heard what he said or seen the looks on their faces.

“What was that all about?”

“I’m fine, Clete. How about you?”

“Are you? How are you doing?”

Cronley shrugged.

“We’ve got a lot to talk about, but it will have to wait until this is over. Let’s go find the tearoom.”

Fine. That’ll give me a chance to introduce you to my new girlfriend. She’s waiting for her husband in there.

[TWO]

In the tearoom, Cronley headed straight for the doughnut table. He wolfed down two of the enormous white sugar-coated cakes, and reached for a third.

“They don’t feed you at your monastery?” Frade asked.

“I didn’t have any breakfast. I had to get up in the middle of the night… and then had to take off as soon as I could see the far end of the runway.”

“You flew here? I mean you flew here?”

Jimmy nodded.

“In a Piper Cub? What does the Army call them? L-4s?”

“In a Storch.”

“Whose Storch?”

“I guess you could say mine. I have two of them.”

“Mattingly didn’t say anything about you having a Storch. Or Storches. Or about you flying.”

“He was probably hoping that on my way here I would fly into one of the many rock-filled clouds we have in scenic Germany and he wouldn’t have to talk about me at all.”

“Why do I suspect that everything is not peachy-keen between you and Mattingly? What’s that all about?”

“I’m sure he’ll tell you in detail just as soon as he has the chance.”

“I’m shocked. The way you talked about him in Argentina, I thought you were convinced he could walk on water and make the blind see with a gentle touch of his hand.”

Cronley was about to reply when three officers — a full colonel, a lieutenant colonel, and a major — walked up to them. All three had Army Ground Forces shoulder insignia.

“Colonel Frade, I’m Jack Mullaney,” the colonel said. “From General Magruder’s shop? We met, very briefly, earlier.”

Shop? What the hell does “shop” mean?

“How are you, Colonel?” Frade asked as he shook Mullaney’s hand.

“And this is Lieutenant Colonel Parsons and Major Ashley.”

Frade shook their hands.

“This is Captain Cronley,” Frade said.

Everybody shook hands.

“Actually, Colonel Frade, we were hoping Captain Cronley could point us toward the officer who will be running Mattingly’s shop in Munich. Parsons and Ashley will be joining it, and would like to make their manners.”

What the hell is he talking about?

Mattingly’s shop in Munich?

“Make their manners”? What the hell does that mean?

“Sir, I don’t understand,” Cronley confessed politely.

“Perhaps the captain hasn’t been brought into the Pullach operation,” Lieutenant Colonel Parsons said.

“Is Pullach what you’re talking about, sir?” Cronley asked. “You said Munich.”

“Is that where the permanent compound will be, Jimmy?” Frade asked.

Cronley nodded.

“Well, now that we’re all talking about the same thing,” Colonel Mullaney said, “can you point out the officer in charge of the Pullach operation for us, Captain?”

“I’m in charge of Pullach, sir,” Cronley said.

The three Pentagon intelligence officers were visibly surprised.

“Well, I will be when we get it open,” Cronley clarified. “It’s not quite finished.”

Major Ashley blurted what all three of them were obviously thinking: “But you’re only a captain!”

Frade chuckled and then took a bite of his doughnut.

“And a very junior captain at that,” he said, with a smile, when he had finished chewing and swallowing.

“I see we’re not all talking about the same thing,” Colonel Mullaney said. “Let me rephrase: Captain, who will be in command of the Pullach operation when it’s up and running? That’s to whom we wish to pay our respects. Would you point him out, please?”

Frade pointed to Cronley.

“Colonel, can I try to clear this up?” he asked.

“Please do, Colonel,” Mullaney said coldly.

“First, as to who will command Pullach. On the way over here, Admiral Souers said that Colonel Mattingly had told him that General Gehlen — who can be very difficult — and Oberst Mannberg — Gehlen’s Number Two — and Captain Cronley got along very well, and for that reason he had decided to give command of Pullach to Cronley. The admiral told me Mattingly thought that was a great idea.”

“How can the captain command the Pullach operation if he will be outranked by Colonel Parsons and Major Ashley, whom General Magruder has assigned to Pullach?”

“I was about to get to that, Colonel,” Frade said. “What I was going to say is that this new organization, the Central Intelligence Group, or whatever the hell it will be called, will inherit from the OSS its somewhat unorthodox philosophy of who does what. That is, the best qualified man gets the job, and his rank has nothing to do with it.”

“I’m afraid I can’t accept that,” Colonel Mullaney said. “I’ll discuss this with General Magruder and Admiral Souers.”

“Well, I see we’re off to a great start,” Frade said. “I should have known something like this would have to be dealt with.”

“Exactly what do you mean by that, Colonel?” Mullaney challenged more than a little nastily.

Frade looked around the tearoom.

“Admiral!” he called.

Cronley saw that Souers was talking to General Greene, Greene’s aide-de-camp, and Lieutenant Colonel and Mrs. Schumann.

“Admiral!” Frade called again, and this time he got Souers’s attention.

“Have you got a minute, Admiral?” Frade called.

Souers walked over to them, bringing everybody with him.

“Getting to know one another, are you?” the admiral smilingly inquired, and then asked, “Do we all know one another?” He looked around, decided that everyone did not know everyone, and began the introductions.

“This is General Greene, the Chief of EUCOM CIC,” he said. “Captain Hall, his aide, Colonel Schumann, his IG, and the charming Mrs. Schumann. This is Colonel Mullaney, through whom we’ll channel the analyses that Colonel Parsons and Major Ashley will develop at Pullach once Captain Cronley gets that up and running.”

There was an exchange of handshakes and courtesies.

Frade waited until it had concluded, then announced: “Small problem, Admiral. Colonel Mullaney just announced that he cannot accept Captain Cronley as commander of Pullach.”

“Oh?”

“Inasmuch as Cronley is junior to Colonel Parsons and Major Ashley,” Frade went on.

“Well, I’m glad the question came up,” Souers said. “Let’s get it out of the way right now.”

“It’s not that I have anything against Captain Cronley, Admiral,” Colonel Mullaney offered, “as far as I know he may be an extraordinary young—”

“Colonel,” Souers interrupted him, “it doesn’t matter what you think of Captain Cronley. What matters is your conception of your role in the South German Industrial Development Organization. Let me tell you how I see that. You are to facilitate, in the Pentagon, the transfer of intelligence produced at Pullach, when it’s up and running, to your superiors in G-2 and Naval Intelligence. Even to the State Department. Without getting into where that intelligence came from. Any questions so far?”

“No, sir. Admiral—”

“You will also funnel requests for intelligence vis-à-vis our Soviet friends from ONI and G-2 to Pullach, without, it should go without saying, telling them to whom you are going for answers to their questions. Do you have any questions about that?”

“No, sir.”

“As you can well imagine, it is in our interests to keep General Gehlen and his people happy. You understand that, of course?”

“Yes, sir, of course.”

“General Gehlen has developed a rapport with Captain Cronley. They seem each to respect the other’s role in the arrangement…”

Jesus, Cronley suddenly thought, what’s going to happen when he finds out this kissy-kissy relationship he thinks there is between me and Gehlen went out the window when I took the Orlovsky interrogation away from his interrogator? And then threw gas on the fire when, in a manner of speaking, I told Mannberg that he and Gehlen could take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut if they didn’t like it?

“… and for that reason, Colonel Mattingly gave command of Kloster Grünau to Cronley and recommended to me that he be placed in command at Pullach when that opens. I accepted that recommendation. That’s it. It is not open for debate.

“Now, so far as your people at Pullach are concerned, they will serve there at Cronley’s pleasure. They should have no question in their minds that Cronley will be in command. Any questions about that, Colonel?”

“No, sir. No questions.”

“Good. I’m glad that’s all cleared up,” Souers said.

“I’ve got one more question, Admiral, that at best may seem ill-mannered,” Frade said. “What’s this lovely lady doing in here with all of us ugly old men?”

“Ugly old men talking about material classified Top Secret — Lindbergh, you mean?”

“Yes, sir,” Frade said.

“We’d planned to get into this later,” Souers said. “But since you brought it up, now’s as good a time as any. General Greene?”

“Admiral Souers, Colonel Mattingly, and I were talking about needing a cover for Pullach,” Greene began. “People are going to wonder about it. What Mattingly and I came up with, and suggested to the admiral, was that we let people think it’s an ASA installation hiding under the South German Industrial Development Organization sign. Everybody, including the Soviets, knows we have the ASA, and keep its installations secret and behind barbed wire and armed guards.

“Major Iron Lung McClung, who runs EUCOM ASA, says it’ll be no problem at all to move an ASA listening post — with its antennae farm — he already has in the Munich area into the Pullach compound. And — this was a gift from Above — McClung says he can set up some wire recorders he liberated from the Germans to transmit gibberish all the time in case those clever Soviets are listening.

“All the Americans in the compound will start wearing Signal Corps insignia. There’s plenty of housing for dependents…”

Dependents? Wives and children? What the hell?

“… so with almost no effort — most good ideas are simple ones — we have what we think will be an effective cover.”

“And where does this charming lady fit into this effective cover?” Frade asked dubiously.

Jimmy noticed that that earned Clete a forced smile from Colonel Mrs. Schumann.

“It’s important, Mattingly and the admiral agreed,” General Greene said, “that while I keep abreast of what’s going on at Pullach, my going there, except rarely, would draw attention to it. We then considered who, on the other hand, could go there frequently, without it looking suspicious.”

Greene looked around and then answered his own question. “My IG is also the IG for ASA. And this charming lady is president of the CIC/ASA Officers’ Ladies Club. And sponsor of the CIC/ASA NCOs’ Wives Clubs. No one would find anything suspicious in Colonel Schumann visiting Pullach every other week or so. Or that he be accompanied by his wife when he did. Or Mrs. Schumann going to Pullach alone to meet with the ladies.”

Cronley looked at Rachel. She met his eyes momentarily.

“Which, I submit, neatly solves the effective liaison problem,” Greene said.

“Mrs. Schumann of course has a Top Secret — Lindbergh clearance?” Frade asked drily.

“Does Mrs. Frade?” Admiral Souers asked.

“No. And I have never told her anything about anything that was classified in any way. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Everyone chuckled.

“Boy Scout’s Honor,” Frade added, making the Scout sign.

That got laughs.

Souers looked at his watch.

“We had better get back in there. We’ve got a lot to cover.”

[THREE]

Cletus Frade said, “In that case, forget it,” and hung up the telephone.

He turned to Jimmy.

“The management regrets that it will take a half hour for room service.”

“I’ll go to the bar and get us something. Jack Daniel’s?”

Clete went to a soft-sided suitcase, opened the zipper, and came up with a bottle of Dewar’s scotch whisky.

“I learned to drink this in Argentina. Okay with you?”

“Anything.”

“We don’t have to have this conversation now, Jimmy. You want to wait until after dinner?”

“I’d like to pass on both.”

Clete found glasses, poured whisky into them, then handed one to Cronley.

“You don’t have any option about Colonel and Mrs. Schumann’s kind invitation to dinner,” Clete said. “You will go and smile. I think Schumann will be very useful to you. He obviously likes you…”

He wouldn’t if he knew I’m screwing his wife.

“… and your only option about our talking is when we do it.”

“Let’s get it over with.”

Clete tapped his glass to Jimmy’s.

“Okay. Bad news first. The Old Man’s had a heart attack.”

“Jesus!”

“That’s the reason I went to Midland. It was what Souers suggested in there, that it was another example of my tendency to act impulsively. I went only after I put everything on the scale and decided, fuck the OSS, they’ve just buried the Squirt, the Old Man had a heart attack, my family needs me. Making that decision took me all of two seconds.”

“How is he?”

“When your father called me… it was the usual lousy connection… he said that the Old Man had had a heart attack on his Connie on their way out there, and they diverted to Dallas and rushed him to Parkland Hospital. He said it didn’t look good, and that he would keep me posted.

“Hansel was with me. I told him to get out to Jorge Frade and get one of our Connies ready while I found our wives and told them why we would be out of town for a few days.

“That of course didn’t work. Argentine women are big on family. When we took off an hour later, my wife and kids and Hansel’s wife and kid were aboard. And so were two nannies, two hundred pounds of kiddy supplies, and Gonzalo Delgano—”

“Who?”

“You met him. He’s SAA’s chief pilot.”

Cronley shook his head indicating he didn’t remember.

“And another pilot, a radio operator/navigator, and a steward. Gonzo was not about to have the boss go flying in the fragile mental condition he was already in caused by the death of his sister, and further aggravated by the grave illness of his grandfather.

“Actually, I was pretty touched even though I wanted to go alone.

“About twenty-one hours later, we touched down at Midland — Gonzo graciously gave me the left seat for the final leg — and I looked out the window and there’s the Old Man leaning on the fender of his Town and Country — you know, that enormous station wagon?”

“I’ve seen one or two.”

“He was waiting for us. With Souers.”

“I thought you said he had a heart attack?”

“My grandfather, with a straight face, said he had a little too much to drink on the airplane. Dr. Neiberger, at the Squirt’s wake, or viewing, or whatever the hell they call it, told me he had had a ‘medium to severe’ heart attack probably brought on by stress. Aside from a daily aspirin — honest to God, an aspirin, to thin the blood — and avoiding stress, there wasn’t much else that could be done for him. Neiberger also said the only way to keep him in the hospital would have been by force, and that would cause precisely the kind of stress he should avoid.”

He paused, then said admiringly, “That Old Man is one tough sonofabitch.”

“Yes, he is.”

“I suppose you want to hear about the viewing and the interment.”

“No, I don’t.”

Clete did not miss a beat: “The Squirt had a lot of friends and they all showed up, including a delegation of her sorority sisters from Rice. You, surprisingly, have more friends than I would have guessed and they all showed up, including a delegation from A&M who served as Marjie’s pallbearers.”

Jimmy suddenly felt his chest heave in an enormous sob. His eyes began to water.

“All in all,” Clete said — and then his voice broke. After a moment, and with great difficulty, he was able to finish, “It was quite an event.”

He picked up the bottle of Dewar’s and added to both their glasses.

“She was buried at Big Foot, of course. On your side.”

“What does that mean, my side?”

“Really? I thought you knew. The cemetery, although it’s on Big Foot, is jointly owned by the Howells and the Cronleys. The Howells get buried on one side and the Cronleys on the other. They buried the late Mrs. Cronley with her husband’s family.”

Jimmy looked at him with tears running down his cheeks.

“Actually, as it turns out, Marjie’s about ten feet from her father,” Clete said. “I don’t know if Mom, or your mother, or your dad, set it up that way, but that’s where the Squirt’ll be from now on. Next to my Uncle Jim.”

Jimmy thought that he hadn’t really understood the convoluted family relations of Cletus Frade until he’d gone to Argentina, although he had wondered about them from the time he wore short pants. Starting with, he thought now, wondering why Jim and Martha Howell’s “son” was named Frade instead of Howell.

Gradually, he had been able to put some of the pieces together.

Clete’s “mom” wasn’t his mother but his aunt. Beth and Marjorie — the Squirt — were his cousins, not his sisters. Their father, James Howell, was Clete’s uncle. James was one of Cletus Marcus Howell’s — the Old Man’s — two children, the other being Clete’s mother. She had died when Clete was an infant.

Jimmy seldom had heard her name, but the Old Man made it clear that the reason she died was that she had married “a despicable Argentinian sonofabitch.” He knew this because that’s how Cletus Marcus Howell referred to him on those rare occasions when the subject came up in Jimmy’s hearing.

Jimmy had grown up thinking that Clete’s father was some sleazy Mexican-type greaseball Casanova who had somehow managed to seduce a wholesome Midland girl, gotten her with child, watched her die — probably of the drugs and alcohol to which he had introduced her — and then abandoned her and their infant offspring. The baby — Clete — had then been taken in by James Howell, his mother’s brother, and reared by him and his wife, Martha, as their own.

When Second Lieutenant Cronley had ordered one of Tiny’s Troopers to put a couple of rounds from the pedestal-mounted.50 caliber Browning machine gun on his jeep into the engine of Lieutenant Colonel Schumann’s staff car to convince the colonel that, IG or not, he was not going to be allowed into Kloster Grünau, he had been entirely within his rights to so.

Cronley had been authorized by Colonel Mattingly to take whatever action was necessary, including the taking of human life, to protect what was going on at Kloster Grünau from becoming known.

But there were ramifications to the shattered engine block. Colonel Schumann had gone to General Greene to report not only the assault upon his staff car, but to tell Greene that he was convinced the activity at the secluded monastery had a great deal to do with the rumor he had been chasing for some time — that renegade Americans were sneaking Nazis out of Germany to South America.

With great difficulty — as Mattingly had not been then authorized to tell Greene anything about Operation Ost — he had managed to dissuade Greene from sending the 18th Infantry Regiment to seize Kloster Grünau from whoever held it. But Mattingly knew that was a temporary solution at best, and that a very credible scenario was that Greene, after thinking it over, would send the 18th Infantry and tell him about it later.

If that happened, about seventy pounds, literally, of incriminating documents at Kloster Grünau would be seized. That simply could not be allowed to happen. Mattingly immediately collected the documents and Second Lieutenant Cronley from Kloster Grünau and took them to Rhine-Main airfield in Frankfurt.

There, after ordering Cronley to guard the documents with his life until he could place them in the hands of Lieutenant Colonel Frade and no one else, he put both on an SAA Constellation bound for Buenos Aires. Then he put himself on a Military Air Transport Service C-54, which departed Rhine-Main for Washington.

He had to convince Admiral Souers, who was presiding over the burial of the OSS, that General Greene and others had to be told of Operation Ost and ordered to support it. Otherwise Operation Ost was going to blow up in everybody’s face, and those faces included President Harry S Truman’s and General of the Army Dwight David Eisenhower’s.

Mattingly’s orders to Cronley were that once the documents were safely in Frade’s hands, he was to catch the next Germany-bound SAA flight and return to Kloster Grünau, where he was to keep his mouth shut, and, if the 18th Infantry showed up, to stall them as long as possible before surrendering.

Cronley had not been able to comply with his orders.

Cletus Frade had met Jimmy Cronley’s SAA aircraft at Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade. He was driving a Horch automobile — very much like Colonel Mattingly’s — and had with him his wife, a long-legged blond with a flawless complexion who spoke English like the King.

What Jimmy hoped was discreet questioning produced the information that the airport was named “Frade” because Clete had dedicated it to his father—that despicable Argentinian sonofabitch? — and that the Horch—“Nice car. Where’d you get it?”—had been his father’s.

They drove into Buenos Aires, a city that didn’t look like anything Mexican, and stopped at a mansion overlooking a horse racetrack. Clete had told him the mansion, built by his Grand-uncle Guillermo, was where Clete and his wife and kids lived because Dorotea thought the “big house” was about as comfortable as a museum.

When they went inside, things immediately became even more complicated.

The Old Man was there. And Martha and Beth and Marjie Howell.

All the Howell women kissed Cronley, which he sort of expected. What he didn’t expect was the way the Squirt kissed him. Clete’s baby sister wasn’t supposed to kiss him that way, and he absolutely wasn’t supposed to have the instant physical reaction to it that he did. All he could do was hope that no one happened to be glancing six inches below his belt buckle.

But even that went into the background when Cronley, almost casually, mentioned to Clete that he had been talking with some of Gehlen’s people at Kloster Grünau about where a missing submarine, U-234, might have made landfall in Argentina, and they had come up with a very likely answer.

“Jesus Christ, didn’t Mattingly tell you?” Clete said.

“What?”

“Apropos of nothing whatever, my last orders from General Donovan were to keep two things going at all costs — Operation Ost and the search for U-234. So tell me, what did you and the boys in the monastery come up with?”

Jimmy’s reply had immediately triggered a good deal of frenzied activity adding to the frenzied activity already in progress, which included the attempted assassination of Colonel Juan D. Perón, whom Clete referred to as his Uncle Juan.

Jimmy still had trouble remembering exactly what had happened and when, but in about the middle of it he had been in Mendoza—

That was right after Clete flew there with a wounded Colonel Perón in the back of the machine-gun-riddled SAA Lodestar.

And before the Squirt told me she’d loved me all her life — and I took her virginity. The next and last time we Did It was in the Lord Baltimore Hotel.

That was after I got checked out in the Lodestar, then headed to the Straits of Magellan. And after I came back from down there with the uranium oxide from the U-234.

And we loaded it on the Old Man’s Connie and flew it to Washington.

And the next thing I knew I was a captain.

And I was a widower — no — first I was a married man.

The next day I was a widower, and that afternoon I was a captain.

— on top of a mountain, in sort of a fort and prison run by Clete’s deputy, Major Maxwell Ashton III, and for the first time Jimmy and Clete were alone for a few minutes and Jimmy had just blurted out, “What the hell’s going on?”

“You mean here at Casa Montagna — aka Fort Leavenworth South?”

“Start with that.”

“Well, it also was built by my Great-uncle Guillermo,” Clete said, “which is why it’s called Estancia Don Guillermo. I never met him, but I understand he was not crippled by modesty and self-effacement. I inherited it from my father, and placed it in the service of the Office of Strategic Services. Next question?”

“How’d you go from being a hotshot fighter pilot to the OSS, Clete? I still remember your mom showing me the picture of you being awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for service there.”

Clete turned his head slightly and nodded. “That’s right. I never told you. As you know, I made Ace — that takes five kills and I got seven — with VFM-226 on Guadalcanal. For living to tell about it, there was a prize: The Corps sent me home to go on a War Bond tour. You can imagine how much fun that was. And following the tour, the Corps was sending me to Pensacola to teach fledging birdmen.

“I was in my room in the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel trying to decide who I was going to have to kill to get out of both the tour and flight school when a full bull Marine colonel showed up. He handed me a picture of a man wearing what looked like a German uniform. ‘That’s your father.’

“I said, ‘Really?’ and he said, ‘We think he’s going to be the next president of Argentina.’

“And I probably said, ‘Really?’ again, and he said, ‘Lieutenant, we want you to go to Argentina and do two things. Blow up an ostensibly neutral ship which is supplying German submarines in the River Plate, and see what you can do to tilt your father to our side. Right now he’s favoring Hitler, Mussolini, and Tojo.’”

“This is for real?”

Clete nodded again. “It was mind-blowing. I said, very respectfully, ‘Sir, I have never laid eyes on my father. That’s the first picture I ever saw of him. And I have no idea how to blow ships up. I’m a Marine fighter pilot.’”

“And?”

“He said, ‘You were a Marine fighter pilot. What you are now is a Basic Flight Instructor on temporary War Bond Tour Duty en route to Pensacola. We’ll teach you how to blow up ships, and I’m sure you’ll figure out some way to cozy up to your daddy once you get to Buenos Aires.’”

“Jesus!”

“Three weeks later, I got off the Panagra Clipper in the River Plate. My cover was that I had been medically discharged from the Corps and was now going to make my contribution to the War Effort by making sure none of the crude or refined product that the Old Man shipped there from Howell Petroleum Venezuela wound up in German, Italian, or Japanese hands.

“The Old Man arranged for me to stay with his major customer, who is a real pain in the ass. All Señor Enrico Mallin knew about me was that I was the Old Man’s grandson — not that my father was an Argentine.

“Two nights after I get to Buenos Aires, I’m having dinner with the Mallin family, trying to keep my eyes off his daughter—”

“His daughter?”

“Good-looking blond. You’ve met her. Her last name is now Frade.”

“That’s where you met her?”

“You want to hear this story or not?”

“Go!”

“The phone rings. The butler tells my future father-in-law it’s for him. Señor Mallin snaps, ‘You know I don’t take calls at dinner,’ and the butler replies, ‘Señor, it is el Coronel Frade.’

“Mallin turns white. He takes the phone and oozes charm as he tells el Coronel Frade how pleased he is to hear his voice, and asks how might he be of service.

“A very loud voice that can be heard all over the dining room announces, ‘It has come to my attention that my son is under your roof. I would like to talk to him.’

“‘Your son, mi Coronel?’

“‘For Christ’s sake, Mallin! I know he’s there. Get him on the goddamned phone!’”

Cronley laughed.

“How’d he know you were there?”

“You met General Martín. The guy who runs the Bureau of Internal Security. He was a light colonel then, Number Three at BIS. It was brought to his attention that an American named Cletus Howell Frade, whose passport said he was born in Argentina, had just gotten off the Panagra Clipper. He checked and — lo and behold! — there it was, el Coronel Frade had a son named Cletus Howell Frade. He asked my father if there was anything el Coronel thought he should know about his son who had just arrived in Buenos Aires.”

“Why’d he do that?”

“My father was about to stage a coup d’état, following which he would become president of the Argentine Republic…”

“He was what?”

“… which Martín thought was a good thing, and didn’t want anything screwing it up. Are you going to stop interrupting me?”

“Sorry.”

“So I took the phone from Mallin. And a deep voice formally announced, ‘This is your father. Would it be convenient for you to take lunch with me tomorrow?’ I said, ‘Yes, sir,’ and he replied, ‘The bar at the Alvear Palace. Half past twelve.’ And he hung up.

“At twelve-forty the next day, ten minutes late — there are two bars at the Alvear, and I’d gone to the wrong one — I walked into the bar looking for a guy in a German uniform. No luck. But a guy wearing a tweed jacket and silk scarf looked hard at me. I walked over and in my best Texican Spanish asked if he was Colonel Frade.

“‘You’re late,’ he announced. ‘I hate to be kept waiting. That said, may I say I’m delighted to see you’ve returned safely from Guadalcanal.’”

“He knew you’d been on Guadalcanal?”

“Yeah. I found out later he knew just about everything else I’d ever done in my life, like when I was promoted from Tenderfoot in Troop 36, BSA, in Midland.

“Then he said, ‘With your approval, I suggest we have a drink, or two, here and then go to the Círculo Militar for lunch. That’s the officers’ club.’

“In the next thirty minutes, over three Jack Daniel’s — doubles — he politely inquired into the health of the Howells, including the Old Man, then announced I had arrived conveniently in time for the funeral next week of my cousin.”

“You had a cousin down here?”

“Cousin Jorge, the son of my father’s sister, Beatrice. Pay close attention, Jimmy, it gets complicated from this point.

“My father said Aunt Beatrice, who’d always been a little odd, poor woman, had just about gone completely bonkers when Cousin Jorge died in the crash of a Storch at Stalingrad. He was afraid she wasn’t going to make it through the funeral, which was going to include the posthumous presentation of the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross.”

“You had a cousin who was a German pilot at Stalingrad?” Jimmy said incredulously.

“He was an Argentine captain, at Stalingrad as an observer.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“And sometime during this exchange of family gossip, I told him the bullshit cover story about me being medically discharged from the Corps, and how I was in Argentina to check on what happened to Howell Venezuela crude and refined product.

“To which he replied, ‘Teniente Coronel Martín — who’s seldom wrong — thinks the OSS sent you down here.’ So I asked him who Martín was, and he told me, and I said he’s wrong, to which he replied, (a) ‘Please do not insult me by lying to me,’ and (b) ‘Don’t worry about Martín. I can handle him until we get you safely out of the country.’

“Then he said it was time for lunch. I tried to be a gentleman and pay for the drinks, but my father waved at the barman. ‘My son’s money is no good in the Alvear. Make sure everyone knows that.’

“We walked out of the hotel. The Horch was parked there next to an Absolutely No Parking Or Stopping At Any Time sign. Enrico — you know Enrico…”

Jimmy nodded.

“… was standing there holding the driver’s door open. My father said, ‘Cletus, this is Suboficial Mayor Rodríguez. We soldiered together for twenty-five years. Enrico, this is my son Cletus.’

“Enrico popped to attention. ‘An honor, mi teniente. El coronel has told me what a fine officer of the Corps de Marines you are.’”

“I thought your father was a Nazi. Or a Nazi sympathizer.”

“At the time, so did I. So then my father said, ‘Get in the back, Enrico. Teniente Frade will drive.’ I got behind the wheel and drove to the Círculo Militar, a couple of blocks away.

“I later found out I was the first person except Enrico my father ever let within ten feet of that steering wheel. He really loved his Horch. He died in it.”

“What?”

“Assassinated. Two barrels of twelve-gauge double-aught buckshot to the face.”

“Jesus Christ, Clete!”

“I’ll return to that later. So we went to the Círculo Militar, where we had several more double Jack Daniel’s while waiting for our lunch, during which time he introduced me to maybe half of the senior brass of the Ejército Argentino as ‘my son, Teniente Cletus, hero of Guadalcanal, where he shot down seven Japanese aircraft and earned the Distinguished Flying Cross.’

“During lunch, which was an enormous filet mignon served with two bottles of Don Guillermo Cabernet Sauvignon — from here, Jimmy, my father said it came from a ‘little vineyard the family owns’… Okay, where was I? Oh. The important part. Over lunch, I heard my father’s version of his marriage and why I was raised by Mom and Uncle Jim. It differed substantially from the Old Man’s version.”

“What was your father’s version?”

“That he and my mother were married in New Orleans, in the Saint Louis Cathedral, with the Old Man’s blessing. His poker-playing pal the Cardinal Archbishop did the honors. No one had ever told me that.

“My father’s best man was his Army buddy, then Major Juan Domingo Perón. A year later, I was born — upstairs in this house, the attending physician was Mother Superior — and Tío Juan became my godfather.”

“That old nun who just sewed up Perón?”

“One and the same. She runs the Little Sisters of Saint Pilar hospital. She also delivered both of my kids.”

“So what the hell happened?”

“My mother, when she converted to Roman Catholicism, jumped in with both feet. The Old Man thought her conversion was no more than a formality to get the cardinal to marry them in the cathedral. But she became deeply devout.”

“So what? I don’t understand.”

“She’d had trouble when I was born. Mother Superior warned her that future pregnancies would be dangerous. This was confirmed by other doctors.”

“And your father didn’t care, he just—”

“What my father told me, with tears running down his cheeks, was that he would cheerfully have started to worship the devil if that’s what it would have taken to get my mother to get her tubes tied or let him use what he called ‘french letters.’ But my mother declared them mortal sins. She said it was in the hands of God.”

“And she became pregnant?”

“And died, together with the child she was carrying, in childbirth.”

“Here?”

“In New Orleans. My father said she didn’t want to go there. But Mother Superior told her that it was her Christian duty to get the best medical attention possible. They left here — taking me with them — and flew to Miami and then New Orleans. Where she died. And the Old Man went ballistic, blaming it all on—”

“That despicable Argentinean sonofabitch?”

Clete grunted. “Yeah. So when my father said that he intended to have my mother buried in the family mausoleum in the Recoleta Cemetery in Buenos Aires, the Old Man talked him into leaving the baby — me — with Mom and Uncle Jim in New Orleans until after the funeral.

“When my father came back to the States to get me, they stopped him at the border. The Old Man had arranged to have him declared a ‘person of low moral character.’ And when my father sneaked into the States from Mexico, he was arrested and did ninety days on a Texas road gang, after which he was deported and told if he tried to get into the States again, he’d do five years.”

“Jesus…”

“Yeah. My father told me he had to give up, and decided that Mom and my Uncle Jim would do a better job of raising me than his sister Beatrice, who already showed signs of lunacy.”

“And you believed your father’s version?”

“Yeah. I did. Right from the start. I knew what a sonofabitch the Old Man can be. I love him, you know that, Jimmy. But he can be, and you know it, a three-star sonofabitch. And what my father told me the Old Man had done sounded just like what the Old Man would do.

“Anyway, I heard this while putting down all that booze, and then my father said, ‘The family has a guesthouse in town. Across from the racetrack on Avenida Libertador. It’s yours for as long as you’re here.’

“He wouldn’t take no for an answer. And since I knew Mallin didn’t want me in his house — he’d seen the way I looked at his Virgin Princess, and I’d seen his reaction to learning who my father was — I agreed to take a look at the house. He introduced me to the housekeeper, who was Enrico’s sister, and showed me around the place.

“In the master bedroom, he sat down and passed out. Enrico threw him over his shoulder and carried him home. Then I passed out.

“Three days later, after the guy running the OSS here — an absolute moron of a lieutenant commander — sent me on an idiot mission to Uruguay… But that’s another story.”

“Tell it.”

“Okay. Why not? This clown sent Tony Pelosi, my demolition guy — you met him, too, the assistant military attaché from the embassy?”

“Yeah. The major from Chicago.”

“Right. Well, Commander Jack Armstrong the All-American Asshole sent me and Tony — he was then a second lieutenant — to Uruguay. We went up near the Brazilian border and waited around in the middle of the night in a field until an airplane dropped us a package. The package had what looked like wooden boxes. The OSS in the States had cleverly molded explosives to look like wooden slats, then made the slats into boxes, and flew the boxes to the U.S. Air Force base at Puerto Allegre. After the exchange of many classified messages between the Air Force and Commander Asshole, who was the naval attaché at the embassy in Buenos Aires, an Air Force guy climbed into his plane. He then violated Uruguayan sovereignty and neutrality by flying into Uruguay and dropping the boxes to the OSS agents who were to use the explosives to blow up a Spanish freighter in Argentina. It was right out of an Errol Flynn — Alan Ladd movie.”

“You and Pelosi used the explosives on the ship?”

Clete shook his head. “On the boat on the way back from Montevideo to Buenos Aires that night, Tony told me there wasn’t enough explosive in the wooden slats to blow a hole in a medium-sized rowboat, but not to worry, he’d bought all the TNT we would need in a hardware store in downtown Buenos Aires.”

“Incredible!”

“It gets worse. The OSS geniuses who had come up with their blow-up-the-Spanish-ship plan hadn’t considered that the ship might have floodlights and machine guns in place to keep people from paddling up to her and attaching an explosive charge to her hull. When Tony and I finally found the ship, we knew we couldn’t get closer to her than five hundred yards.”

“So the ship didn’t get sunk?”

“Oh, it got sunk all right, but by a U.S. Navy submarine. Tony and I flew over it in my father’s Staggerwing Beechcraft, lit it up with flares, and the sub put two torpedoes in her. Which is, come to think of it, how come you were able to fly up here in my red Lodestar.”

“Why red? This I have to hear.”

“We heroes love nothing more than being able to tell of our exploits to appreciative and impressionable young men, so I’ll tell you.” He paused. “I’ll start with the night I came back from Uruguay…

“When I walked into Grand-uncle Guillermo’s house, I saw lights in the library and heard music — Beethoven — playing on the phonograph. I thought that it was probably my father, so I walked in. A young blond guy was sitting in an armchair, staring thoughtfully into a brandy snifter and waving his hand to the music.

“In my best Texican Spanish, I courteously asked who the hell he was.

“He jumped to his feet, bobbed his head, clicked his heels, and formally replied, ‘Major Hans-Peter Ritter von Wachtstein of the Luftwaffe.’

“To which I naturally replied, ‘First Lieutenant Cletus H. Frade of the United States Marine Corps at your service, sir.’”

“The enemy was in the library? You’re pulling my leg…”

“Absolutely not. Hansel said, in Spanish, ‘It would seem we are enemy officers who’ve met on neutral territory.’

“So I cleverly replied, ‘That’s sure what it looks like.’

“Hansel said, ‘I have no idea what we should do.’

“To which I replied, ‘Why don’t you start by telling me what you’re doing sitting in my father’s chair, drinking his cognac?’

“That got his attention. He said, ‘Herr Leutnant, please permit me to extend my condolences on the loss of your loved one, the late Hauptman Jorge Frade Duarte, whose remains I had the honor of escorting from Germany.’

“I suavely replied, ‘Before we get into that, Major, is there any more of that cognac? I’ve had a trying day.’”

“So that’s how you met Hansel!” Jimmy said, laughing.

Clete nodded. “An hour and a bottle and a half of cognac later, we were pals. What had happened was that my loony tune Aunt Beatrice, either not knowing or not caring that I was in the family guesthouse, sent Hansel there after he delivered Cousin Jorge’s lead-lined casket.”

“What was that all about? Sending the body home to Argentina?”

“Hansel told me the idea came from Josef Goebbels himself. Pure propaganda. The son of a prominent — very prominent — Argentine family gets killed in the holy war against the godless Communists. Germany and Argentina fight the holy war together.”

“And how did Hansel get involved?”

“He’s a legitimate German hero. He got the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross from Hitler himself. And — an important ‘and’—his father, one of the German generals in from the beginning of the plot to assassinate Adolf, wanted to get the last of the von Wachtstein line out of Germany alive. Hansel’s two brothers had already died in the war.”

“And he told you all this the night you met him?”

“No, of course not. It came out later. That first night we just got smashed and agreed on a couple of things. For example, that fighter pilots are superior human beings and, unkindly, that Cousin Jorge not only didn’t deserve the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross Hansel was going to pin on his casket but was a goddamned fool for going to a war he didn’t have to go to.

“The next morning, they sent people from the German embassy to get Hansel out of the house. We had decided we wouldn’t mention to anyone that we’d met.

“The next time I saw him was the day of the funeral. He came to me at the Alvear hotel and told me to watch my back — the SS guy in the embassy had told him they were going to whack me.”

“What?”

Clete nodded and went on, “And sure enough the next night, three Paraguayan hit men showed up at Uncle Guillermo’s house and tried to do just that.”

“Tried to assassinate you?”

“Obviously they failed. But they slit the throat of Enrico’s sister before they came upstairs after me. Miserable bastards. She was a really good woman. She had known my mother — and me, too, when I was an infant — and told me a hell of a lot about my mother that nobody had ever told me before.”

“‘They failed’?”

“I was waiting for them,” Clete said simply. “I shot them.”

“I never heard any of this.”

“What was I supposed to do, Jimmy, write home? ‘Dear Mom: Well, the news from the Paris of Latin America is that Nazis sent some Paraguayan assassins to my house last night. I had to kill all three. There’s blood and brains all over my bedroom. PS — Tell Jimmy’?”

“Jesus!”

“They do a lot of that, assassinations or attempted assassinations, down here. Just before they shot at Tío Juan, somebody showed up at Martín’s house to take him out. He had to kill three, too — and they were Argentine officers.”

Cronley was silent for a moment, then asked, “You didn’t get hurt? What did you do with the bodies? Did the cops come?”

“There was a water pitcher by my bedside. It got hit, exploded, and I had fifty or so crystal fragments in my face and neck. It wasn’t serious but at the time I thought I was going to bleed to death right there.

“Yeah, the cops came. But so did Bernardo Martín. He got rid of the cops, then put me in an ambulance and hid me in the military hospital. A dozen BIS agents stood watch as they patched me up.

“The next day, Enrico showed up at the hospital with that shotgun you’ve seen him with. The newspapers reported a robbery in the Frade mansion and the police had been forced to shoot the robbers.

“Then my father showed up. Thoroughly pissed. Enrico would stay with me, he announced, until I could be loaded on the Panagra Clipper to Miami. I told him thanks but no thanks. I had been sent to Argentina to blow up a ship, and that’s what I intended to do — it was my duty as an officer.

“He gave me a funny look, then he wrapped his arms around me. ‘I should have known better. The blood of Pueyrredón flows in your veins as it flows in mine! You must do your duty! And it is clearly my duty to help you.’

“Whose blood?”

“Juan Martín de Pueyrredón’s. It seems he’s my great-great-grandfather. He ran the English out of Buenos Aires in 1806 using gauchos from his estancia as cavalry. Big hero down here. Think Nathan Bedford Forrest.

“I didn’t know that then. All I knew was that my father was emotional about our bloodline and trying to be a nice guy. I said something like, ‘Thanks but unless you know where I can borrow an airplane to look for this Spanish ship…’

“To which he replied, ‘There’s half a dozen Piper Cubs and a Staggerwing Beechcraft at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. Or I can come up with something else.’

“He then told me the estancia was one of the family’s little ranches, eighty-four thousand two hundred and five hectares. A hectare is two point five acres.”

Jimmy whistled.

“He said the Cubs were useful to keep track of the cattle. The Staggerwing Beechcraft he’d bought to fly back and forth between Santo Tomé and Buenos Aires when he was commanding the Húsares de Pueyrredón Cavalry Regiment. He had a pilot, Gonzalo Delgano—”

“The SAA pilot?”

“The SAA chief pilot. My father told me I could use the Staggerwing to find the Reine de la Mer, the Spanish ship supplying German subs, if I gave my word of honor as an officer and gentleman that I’d leave Argentina immediately after I blew it up. I didn’t think the Argentines were going to like a Yankee blowing up a ship in their waters and would put me in jail if they didn’t shoot me. I agreed to his terms.

“So that’s what happened. Tony and I found the Reine de la Mer. An American sub sneaked into the River Plate. Tony and I lit up the Reine de la Mer with flares from the Staggerwing and the sub put two torpedoes into her. A spectacular sight that Tony and I watched swimming around in the water into which I had dumped the Staggerwing after the machine guns on the Reine de la Mer had knocked out the engine.”

“You got shot down?”

Frade nodded.

“Enrico picked us up in a speedboat. We hid in Buenos Aires for two days, then took the Panagra Flying Clipper to Miami. My father saw us off. He said”—Frade’s voice started to break—“that he loved me and was proud of me and that we would see each other after the war.”

“And?”

“And that was the last time I ever saw him.”

Clete met Jimmy’s eyes, cleared his throat, and went on: “Then my education in this business really began. You may find this hard to believe, but at that point in my life, I was as innocent and naïve as you are now.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“In Miami, I called Colonel Graham—”

“Who?”

“Colonel A. J. Graham, USMCR, OSS deputy director for Western Hemisphere Operations. The guy who I met in Hollywood and sent me to Buenos Aires. I was going to tell him Tony and I were in Miami and why. He said he already knew. Then he told me to go to New Orleans, to the Old Man’s house, and take Tony with me. We were not only not to go home, we weren’t even allowed to call home.

“Two days later, he showed up at the Old Man’s house and announced the President was very pleased—”

“Roosevelt?”

Frade nodded.

“As proof thereof, I was now a captain, and Tony a first lieutenant. As soon as the paperwork caught up, I would get the Navy Cross and Tony the Silver Star.

“For a few wonderful seconds I saw a bright future. I’d go to Pensacola for the rest of the war and very, very carefully teach young men to fly. After the war, I’d get out of the Corps, fly to BA, marry Dorotea, and we’d spend the rest of our lives in a vine-covered cottage by the side of a road somewhere.

“Graham said, ‘We now need to talk about you going back to Buenos Aires.’

“I replied, ‘If I go back, two things will happen. Right after I shoot Commander Asshole, the Argentines will put me in jail or in front of a firing squad or both.’

“He said, ‘You’re replacing Commander Asshole as the naval attaché. You will have diplomatic immunity and can’t be arrested for anything. Ditto for Pelosi — he’s now an assistant military attaché.’

“‘You don’t understand, Colonel, sir,’ I said. ‘The Argentines know I used my father’s Staggerwing to light up the Reine de la Mer. They won’t accept me as naval attaché.’

“Graham shook his head. ‘The only way they could turn you down would be by accusing you of being involved in that. How could you possibly light up a ship the Argentine Foreign Ministry insists has never been in neutral Argentine waters?’

“He let me figure that out, then said, ‘So far as your father’s Staggerwing is concerned, the President decided it would be a nice gesture on his part, a token of the admiration of the American people for the man we think will be the next president of the Argentine Republic, to send him another. He’s issued the necessary orders to see that’s done immediately. You can tell him that when you get back down there, which will be as soon as the State Department gets off its bureaucratic ass and delivers your diplomatic passports and you get on a Clipper.’”

“And?”

“And… next day came the news that my father had been assassinated. The word Graham got was that the people involved with my father in Outline Blue, the coup d’état, were convinced the Germans were behind it, and were furious. Graham suggested I go back as an Argentine — since I was born here — and cozy up to whoever was the new president.”

“Wasn’t that risky?”

“Graham knew damned well how risky. But he saw how angry I was. It didn’t occur to me that he was thinking, What the hell, Frade’s expendable.”

“You’re bitter?”

“I was for a while. But when I grew up, I realized that not being told you’re considered expendable is one of the rules in this game we’re playing. You should write that down.”

“Would you believe I’ve already figured that out? That I’m considered expendable and nobody told me?”

“I think you’re referring to Mattingly,” Clete said. “I want to talk about that, but let me finish this first.”

Cronley gestured Go on.

“Tony and I came back here on the next Clipper — Tony on a diplomatic passport, me as an Argentine citizen coming home to bury his father. The funeral was spectacular.”

“Spectacular?”

“A delegation of Argentine Army brass met the Clipper. After stopping at the military hospital to pick up Enrico—”

“What was Enrico doing in the hospital?”

“Still bleeding from the multiple double-aught buckshot when they murdered my father. The only reason he was alive was that the guys with the shotguns apparently decided that anybody bleeding from so many holes wasn’t worth shooting a third time.

“So we pushed Enrico’s wheelchair out of the hospital and loaded him into an open Army Mercedes… I should mention he was wearing his dress uniform over nine miles of bloody bandages… and then drove to the Edificio Liberator, Argentina’s Pentagon, where my father had been lying in state. In a closed coffin. There wasn’t much left of his head.

“That afternoon they moved him to the family mausoleum in the Recoleta Cemetery. In a parade through downtown Buenos Aires. He was escorted by the entire Húsares de Pueyrredón regiment in their dress uniforms. I had never seen some twenty-two hundred men on horses in one place. The Argentine Army band marched along, playing appropriate music. Like I said, spectacular.

“Sometime during the funeral, Martín approached me and without coming right out and saying it — they call that obfuscation, and he’s good at it — let me know that he was going to be the liaison officer between me and the Argentine brass — Army and Navy — and that as my father’s son I was welcome in the land of my birth. I was not going to be stood against a wall for being a spy — as long as I didn’t do anything stupid, like blow up neutral ships or shoot the SS officer at the German embassy who I suspected of having ordered the murder of my father.

“My Uncle Humberto, who is a good guy, came to me right after the funeral. He said we had to talk about my inheritance and thought it best done at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. So we went out there, primarily because it was the only way I could get Enrico if not back in bed then at least off his feet.”

“Explain that?”

Clete nodded. “Enrico told me that God had spared him so that he could protect me, and that he would be with me from that moment on. He wasn’t kidding. I figured if I went to the estancia, Enrico could sit in an armchair and not bleed while I watched the grass grow, heard about my inheritance, and figured out how I could cozy up to whoever was going to be the new president.

“At the estancia was Gonzo Delgano. My father had told me that he knew — and Gonzo knew he knew, but both pretended they didn’t — that his Staggerwing pilot was really a BIS agent keeping an eye on my father. I figured Martín was keeping him there to watch me, so I pretended I thought he was an airplane pilot, period.

“About the time Enrico stopped bleeding all over the carpets while following me around, maybe a week later, Tony showed up in his Army attaché’s uniform to deliver a message. The U.S. Air Force base at Puerto Alegre had an aircraft they were ordered to deliver to el Coronel Jorge Frade as a gift from the President of the United States. They had learned that he had passed, so who got the airplane?

“That was a no-brainer for me. I did. Uncle Humberto had explained that I had inherited everything my father owned. So I told Gonzo that we were about to get a Staggerwing to replace the one I had landed in the water and did he want to go to Brazil with me and check it out before I flew it back?

“He told me he would have to check with his wife.

“I knew, and he knew I knew, that he meant Teniente Coronel Martín. But what the hell?

“So we stopped in Buenos Aires long enough to pick up an impressive document saying that I was the sole heir of the late Colonel Frade, and flew to Puerto Alegre in a Brazilian Ford trimotor.”

“And they gave you a replacement Staggerwing?”

“No. They gave me a Lockheed Lodestar painted Staggerwing red.”

“What the hell?”

“Much later, I found out that what had happened was that when the order had come down from the commander in chief to instantly send a Staggerwing painted Staggerwing red to Brazil, for further shipment to a Colonel Frade, there was a little problem. There were no Staggerwings in the Air Force inventory, and Beech had stopped making them in 1939. There was, however, a Lodestar fresh from the factory, with an interior designed for the comfort of some Air Force general. So they painted it Staggerwing red and flew it to Brazil.

“Gonzo was less than thrilled. He had permission ‘from his wife’ to bring a Staggerwing into Argentina, not a sixteen-passenger twin-engine transport. I told him he could watch from the ground as I took off for Buenos Aires in the Lodestar.”

“Where’d you learn to fly a Lodestar? In the Marines?”

“Well, I had some time in your dad’s Twin Beech, of course, and I had some time in the right seats of Gooney Birds, C-47s, on Guadalcanal. I lied about how much time I had doing that, then talked the Air Force guy who’d flown the Lodestar to Brazil into giving me a quick transition — I shot a couple of touch-and-goes.

“At the last minute, Gonzo says he’ll come with me if I agree to fly to Santo Tomé, in Corrientes, instead of Buenos Aires. I asked why, but he wouldn’t tell me. Turned out my father had built an airstrip at Santo Tomé for the Staggerwing when he commanded the Húsares de Pueyrredón. I found out later he and Martín wanted me to take the Staggerwing there from the git-go.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Telling me would’ve meant they’d have had to also tell me that General Rawson had decided he was going to have to take over for my father in Operation Blue, the coup d’état, and that was about to happen. If it fell apart, Rawson and the other senior officers would be jailed, or more likely shot. Unless they could get out of the country. To Uruguay.”

“In the Staggerwing,” Jimmy said, connecting the dots. “That nobody knew you had.”

“Right. You can cram eight people into a Staggerwing if you have to. So we flew to Santo Tomé. Gonzo called Martín, and Martín told me to fly the Lodestar to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, without being seen, and keep it under cover until I heard from him.

“By then I had pretty much figured out what was going on. I asked, and he told me.

“A week later I got a call, and flew the Lodestar to Campo de Mayo, the big army base, from where General Rawson was running the revolution.”

Jimmy smiled. “And because the revolution succeeded, the Lodestar wasn’t needed to get the brass out of Dodge City. But you still got to be a good guy by making it available.”

“Ahem,” Clete said theatrically. “Let me tell you how I got to be a good guy. The good guy. A hero of the revolution. Rawson had two columns headed for the Casa Rosada — the Argentine White House. Once they got there, the war would be over. But it didn’t look like they were going to get there anytime soon, if at all. Both column commanders had decided the other guys were the bad guys — and they were shooting at each other.

“Everybody in the Officers’ Casino, which was revolution headquarters, was running around like headless chickens. Rawson was in contact — by telephone, no radios worked — with one of the columns. He orders them to stop shooting at the other column.

“‘Not until they stop shooting at us!’

“Rawson could not reach the other column. ‘What am I supposed to do? I cannot go there personally and tell them to stop. It would take an hour and a half to get there — and everybody will have shot everybody else.’

“I politely volunteered: ‘General, if I may make a suggestion. There’s a soccer field at the Naval Engineering School. I can land one of your Piper Cubs there and you can personally tell them to stop shooting at the other good guys and resume shooting at the bad guys.’

“Rawson was desperate. He let me load him in the back of a Cub. He was terrified. It was his third flight in a Cub. Worse, knowing both columns had machine guns, I flew there on the deck. Around and in between the apartment and office buildings, instead of over them.

“All of which convinced Rawson, who became president, that not only was I the world’s best pilot, but at least as brave and willing to risk his life for Argentina as had been my great-great-grandfather Juan Martín de Pueyrredón.

“That paid off when we were starting up SAA and some bureaucrat discovered that I didn’t have an Argentine pilot’s license.”

“Tell me about that…” Jimmy said.

But somebody at Casa Montagna had come looking for Clete, and he never had the chance to tell that story.

“… that’s where the Squirt’ll be from now on. Next to my Uncle Jim,” Clete now said.

And then he drained his half-full glass of Dewar’s.

Jimmy held his glass out to be filled.

“You sure? You don’t want to be shit-faced when we dine with the Schumanns.”

“I’m sure.”

And then he changed his mind.

“No. You’re right. I want to be very careful around Colonel and Mrs. Schumann.”