Everybody knows that el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade is deeply involved with the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos. Will Internal Security now suspect that because I am close enough to Frade to entertain his son in my home, I am also closely connected with Grupo de Oficiales Unidos?
God, if I had known who his father was, I wouldn't have had him at the house for so much as a cocktail!
Goddamn the old man for not telling me who his grandson is!
That could have been innocent, of course. A natural reluctance to keep intimate family business private. But Clete should have said something; after all, he was a guest in my house! He should have known-of course he knew-that we would be interested to know who his father is. He didn't tell us until he had to! Why?
And I don't like the way he looks at Dorotea, either. Or the way she looks at him. How dare he call her "Princess"?
Well, he'll be gone tomorrow, or the day after, and after that, 1 will simply, tactfully, increase the distance between us.
Chapter Nine
[ONE]
Edificio Kavanagh
Calle Florida 1065
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1105 27 November 1942
El Teniente Coronel Martin found a pay telephone in a cigar-and-candy kiosk around the corner from the Edificio Kavanagh and called his office.
El Comandante Carlos Habanzo answered. It was not a Comandante's function to answer the phone; there were enlisted men and junior officers to do that. But in this case Martin decided to say nothing. For one thing, he was aware that he had been finding fault with just about everything Habanzo was doing; and for an-other, he wanted to speak to him.
"Habanzo, I need two good men-well-dressed, who won't look like whores in church-to be in the lobby of the Alvear Palace, with cameras, from eleven-thirty. They are to surveil a meeting between el Coronel Jorge Guillermo..."
"Mi Coronel, I regret that we have no one available at the moment"
"What do you mean, no one's available?"
"Mi Coronel, you reviewed and approved the assignment list this morning. I can, of course, call two men back from the pistol range, but there is no way they can reach the Alvear Palace by eleven-thirty."
"Comandante Habanzo, are you wearing a clean shirt?"
"S¡, mi Coronel."
"The lobby of the Alvear Palace Hotel from eleven-thirty, Ha-banzo. Do not say hello to me. We'll dispense with photogra-phy."
"S¡, mi Coronel. Mi Coronel, I could bring a camera."
"That won't be necessary. Just be there. You will be able to recognize young Frade?"
"Of course, mi Coronel."
[TWO]
1728 Avenida Coronel Diaz
Palermo. Buenos Aires
0945 27 November 1942
El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade was already awake and out of bed, bathed, shaved, and sitting, dressed in a summer-weight red silk dressing robe, in an armchair reading yesterday's La Nation (The most conservative of Buenos Aires' daily newspapers.) when Antonio, his butler, wheeled in the breakfast cart.
"Buenos dias, mi Coronel."
"I was wondering what happened to you," Frade said. He dropped the newspaper on the floor, walked to the cart, and lifted silver covers from several dishes on it.
"It is quarter to ten, mi Coronel," Antonio said, which was both an announcement of the time and a statement that breakfast was being served at the time it was supposed to be served.
Frade looked at his watch.
"So it is," he said. "I think melon and ham, Antonio, and a couple of eggs. Presuming they are neither raw nor hard-boiled."
"Four minutes exactly, mi Coronel," Antonio said. "I boiled them myself."
"That's what I was afraid of," Frade said.
Antonio began moving items from the breakfast cart to a table, as Frade picked up a chair and carried it to the table. He sat down and watched as Antonio poured orange juice and then coffee, and then began to cut the meat from a cantaloupe.
Frade picked up the orange juice.
"And what are we going to wear today, mi Coronel?"
"A suit. I have an important lunch."
"The double-breasted gray?"
"That should do," Frade said. "With one of the new shirts."
"S¡, mi Coronel."
"And for a tie?"
"Lay several out," Frade said.
"S¡, mi Coronel. And the black wing tips?"
Frade nodded.
"The Se¤ora asks that you call when you have time," Antonio said. "At her home."
"Here? She's in town?"
"S¡, mi Coronel."
"The Se¤ora will have to wait. If she calls again, please tell her I will try to call her this afternoon. And while you're on the phone, call the Centro Naval (Literally, Navy Center. An officer's club serving both services on Calle Florida.) and tell them I may require my table for luncheon."
"For how many guests, mi Coronel?"
"One."
"S¡, mi Coronel," Antonio said as he picked up a silver cof-feepot and refilled el Coronels cup. "You will require the car when, mi Coronel?"
"My appointment is for twelve, at the Alvear Palace."
"Eleven-thirty, mi Coronel?"
"A little earlier, I think. I don't want to be late."
"S¡, mi Coronel."
At ten forty-five, when el Coronel descended the wide marble staircase to the entrance foyer and looked out the window, his car was not standing before the door.
He turned and went down a corridor into the kitchen. Antonio was sitting at the kitchen table with the housekeeper and one of the maids, drinking coffee.
"Mi Coronel, you said eleven-thirty," he said with reproof in his voice, as he stood up.
"It is not a problem," Frade said, walked past him, and passed through a door leading to the basement garage.
Enrico was there, his suit jacket off, his shirt sleeves rolled up, polishing the hood of the Buick station wagon. He was carrying a.45 automatic in a shoulder holster.
"Antonio said eleven-thirty, mi Coronel," he said.
"Better to be early than late," Frade said.
"Where are we going, mi Coronel?"
"We are not going anywhere. I will not need you this morning, Enrico."
"Mi Coronel?"
"I am going to the Alvear Plaza, and then to the Centro Naval. And I wish to be alone.'
Enrico was visibly unhappy with this announcement.
"Mi Coronel..."
"Are the keys in the Horche?"
'S¡, mi Coronel. Mi Coronel, I can wait in the car."
"Open the doors like a good fellow, Enrico," Frade said, and then added, "Enrico, I will be all right."
Enrico expressed his displeasure with Frade by showing him a stony face as he opened the door to the Horche, then went to open the garage doors. Frade started the engine, let it warm a moment, and then drove out of the garage and headed downtown.
He decided to leave the Horche at his sister's house on Avenue Alvear. It was only two squares from the hotel, the walk would do him good, and inside her tall fence (there is no good reason I can't close the gates myself) it would be safe from both the idiot drivers on the street and the greasy hands of the curious. And with just a little bit of luck, she wouldn't even know it was there.
The Horche was important to him. He truly believed that he indulged himself in few personal luxuries; and if he was extraor-dinarily sensitive about his 1940 Horche droptop touring sedan, so be it. In his judgment, the Horche was the finest automobile in the world. Certainly better than the Cadillac or the Mercedes-Benz or the Rolls-Royce or the Packard, and far superior to every lesser car he had ever driven. His was one of the very last Horches to leave the factory, before the factory started to make trucks or cannon or whatever for Hitler's military.
It was built like a battleship would be built if Swiss watch-makers built warships. It not only handled beautifully and was powered by a smooth, very strong engine, but was beautifully furnished inside, with fine leather se
ats and gnarled walnut on both the dashboard and in the passenger compartment. With rea-sonable care, it would last not only through the war-however long that lasted-but indefinitely thereafter. He personally supervised its care, and often did the work himself.
The problem was little things. If there was a fender-bender, he had absolutely no way to replace a bumper, a headlight ring, or one of the clever little lights that sat on the fenders and indicated (controlled by a switch on the dash) which way the driver in-tended to turn. There were simply no parts available in Buenos Aires.
Therefore, it seemed entirely understandable to him that he never permitted anyone to drive it but himself, and on rare, ab-solutely unavoidable occasions, Enrico. First of all, he was as good a driver as he knew-fast but skillful, and thus safe. Sec-ondly, no one else could be expected to share his full appreciation of the mechanical and aesthetic superiority of the Horche, and therefore no one else could be expected to handle the car with the respect it deserved. He had no intention of entrusting the Horche to one of the Alvear Palace Hotel's bellmen to park.
Leaving it at his sister's house seemed a perfectly satisfactory solution to the problem of driving the Horche downtown to meet Cletus.
Luck was not with him. Two of Beatrice's servants were ad-justing cobblestones in the drive, and it wasn't until too late that he saw Beatrice herself, in a mourning-black dress, standing there watching. Or believing she was supervising.
Her face lit up when she saw him; her eyes were at once bright and vacant.
Mother of Christ, she's still taking those pills! What the hell is the matter with her husband?
"Jorge, how nice!" she said as he stepped out of the Horche.
He walked to her and she raised her cheek to be kissed.
"I didn't expect to see you," he said. "All I wanted to do was use your drive to park the car."
"The cobblestones are washing loose," Beatrice said, pointing. "Ricardo thinks that water is coming under the drive out of the drainpipes from the roof."
One of the workmen, hearing his name, looked up and smiled at Frade.
"Buenos dias, mi Coronel."
"Buenos dias," Frade said. "Beatrice, you'll have to excuse me. I have a business appointment at noon." She looked at him with empty eyes and a smile. "At the Alvear," he added, nodding down Avenue Alvear.
Beatrice put a hand to her bosom and lifted a lapel watch.
Damn, she has a watch. I'm surprised she knows what day of the week it is, but she has a watch.
"It's eleven-fifteen," Beatrice announced. "You have forty-five minutes. It will take you two minutes to walk to the Alvear. We have time for a coffee."
"It's an important meeting. I don't want to be late."
"You have time. And I have so much to tell you about the arrangements."
She took his arm and led him into the house, to the sitting room.
"Ambassador von Lutzenberger has been to see Humberto-'*
"I know," Frade interrupted her. "He called me first, and I sug-gested he call Humberto."
Alberto came into the library.
"We will have two coffees, please, Alberto. And if mere are any candied orange slices... el Coronel likes candied orange slices; he has since we were children."
"S¡, Se¤ora," Alberto said, and left.
I don't like candied orange slices. I haven't liked them since I was fourteen or fifteen. Good God!
"Ambassador von Lutzenberger told Humberto that Jorge is to be decorated, posthumously, by the German government," Beatrice said.
"He mentioned that to me."
"And-I thought it would be nice, I'm trying to work it out with Monsignor Kelly-do you know him?"
Frade shook his head no.
"Very nice man. He handles important ceremonies for the Archbishop."
"I haven't had the pleasure."
"Well, I thought it would be nice to have that ceremony-they pin the decoration to the flag, which will be covering the casket- outside Our Lady of Pilar. On the plaza, before the Archbishop celebrates the high requiem mass. Or do you think it Would be better to do it after the mass, and before we take the casket to Recoleta?"
Has it occurred to you, my poor darling, that you are talking about a decoration to be awarded in the name of a mass mur-derer? For political reasons, not because poor Jorge did anything valorous?
"If you want my opinion, Beatrice, I would say that sort of decision would best be left to the Monsignor. You said his name was Kelly?"
"Yes. Monsignor Kelly. A fine and holy man."
"Why don't you tell him to do what he thinks is best?"
"You're right, of course," she said. "Have I told you about the reception?"
"No. You haven't."
"I was wondering... We'll have it here, of course. It was Jorge's home. Getting people in and out of their cars will be a problem. Especially if it rains. Otherwise, I suppose they could park their cars by Our Lady of Pilar and walk here from Recoleta. But if it rains, that would pose a problem, of course."
"What were you wondering, Beatrice?"
"Mommy's punch bowl. Do you have it here in the city? Or is it at the estancia?"
Mother's punch bowl?
It was enormous. He suddenly remembered that he and Beatrice were whipped as children after filling it with a litter of nearly grown Llewellyn setters.
"I was thinking it would look so nice," Beatrice explained, "filled with flowers, if we put it in the center of the foyer. We could move in one of the tables from the library and put it on that."
"I think it's here," Frade said. "If it's not... if it's at San Pedro y San Pablo, I'll have it brought to you."
"Just the punch bowl. Not the cups."
"Just the punch bowl."
"You are always so kind to me, Jorge. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Don't be silly, Beatrice."
Alberto appeared with the coffee on a silver tray, a cortado for his mistress, and a cafe doble for Frade.
"Everything for the invitations is ready, except the date. We won't know the date, of course, until the General Belgrano ar-rives. Humberto spoke with someone at the shipping com-pany..."
"L.M.A.E.," Frade said without thinking-Lineas Mar¡timas de Argentina y Europa.
"Yes," Beatrice said, ever so genteelly letting him know she didn't like the interruption. "L.M.A.E. The General Belgrano sailed November eighth, so it's due here around the first of the month. In a week or so. The casket is to be brought here. Hum-berto wanted to put it in the library, but I said there will be so many people that we'll have to put it in the foyer, to keep the traffic moving, so to speak. Don't you agree?"
If I don't escape from here in the next thirty seconds, I am going insane!
"Yes, Beatrice, I agree."
He looked at his watch.
"Beatrice, I must go."
"You haven't finished your coffee."
"I drink too much coffee. It's bad for my nerves. I can't sleep."
"Those Brazilian cigars of yours are what keeps you awake,"
Beatrice proclaimed. "I read an article..."
"Beatrice, I'll have the punch bowl sent over to you as soon as I can; within the next several days."
"And there's one more thing," Beatrice said.
"Yes?"
"There's nobody in your house but you, so I wondered if it would be a terrible inconvenience for you to put up Captain von Wachtstein for a while, at least until the funeral is over."
"Captain who?"
"Captain Hans-Peter von Wachtstein. He is the officer bringing Jorge home. Ambassador von Lutzenberger said that he comes from a fine Pomeranian family; and that his father is a Major General. I don't think he would be comfortable here, Jorge, and we certainly can't put him into a hotel."
In that case, let the goddamned German ambassador take care of him!
"Certainly, Beatrice. I'll tell Se¤ora Pellano to set up an apart-ment for him in Uncle Guillermo's."
"The Guest House?" she asked, surpris
e and hurt in her voice. "Not in your house?"
W E B Griffin - Honor 1 - Honor Bound Page 26
