‘‘The bar, gentlemen, is at the rear of the room,’’ he said.
They all took champagne and moved into the reception.
Goltz turned over his shoulder.
‘‘What was that about, von Wachtstein?’’ he asked. ‘‘With our hostess?’’
Ambassador von Lutzenberger answered for him: ‘‘There is to be a private memorial service, family and friends only, for Oberst Frade at his estancia on Sunday. To which, apparently, our von Wachtstein has been invited. Since he escorted the remains of Hauptmann Duarte to Buenos Aires, the Duartes seem to have almost adopted him.’’
‘‘How interesting,’’ Goltz said.
Fascinating. Von Wachtstein has developed a friendship, a close friendship, with the people who run the Anglo-Argentine Bank. That may prove very useful indeed.
[FOUR]
Clete’s first visitors in the upstairs sitting were Señora Claudia Carzino-Cormano and her daughters. He had been sitting slumped in an armchair with a drink, reading with disbelief the Buenos Aires Herald.
It was clear to him that the front-page story—which described him as a hero of the Battle of Guadalcanal, retired from the Marine Corps as a Major, and an Argentine citizen —had come directly from the typewriter of the Information Officer at the American Embassy. He wondered if it had been written at the Ambassador’s orders, or whether Colonel Graham had something to do with it. That seemed unlikely, but Graham routinely did unlikely things.
Accordingly to other stories in the Herald, the Germans and the Japanese were retreating on all fronts after suffering severe losses, Hitler was about to fall on his knees and beg for mercy, and Emperor Hirohito was next in line.
The last he had heard, the Germans were still occupying most of the landmass of Europe. And the Japanese were still in Singapore, and for that matter, the Philippines, plus all the little Pacific islands from which the Marine Corps would have to remove them, in fighting that was going to be at least as bloody as it had been on Guadalcanal.
He wondered how the readers of the Herald reconciled the optimistic news reports on the front page with the two and a half pages of obituaries, often with photographs, of the Anglo-Argentines who had been killed fighting with the His Britannic Majesty’s Royal Army, Navy, and Air Force all over the world. Three Anglo-Argentines, he noticed, had been killed fighting with His Royal Australian Air Force in New Guinea, another place from which the Japanese obviously had no plans of retreating.
When he saw Claudia enter the room, he dropped the newspaper on the floor beside him, jumped to his feet, and went to her.
‘‘How’re you holding up, sport?’’ he asked, although through her black veil he could see in her eyes and the strain on her face the answer to that.
She pushed the veil off her face and hugged him and tenderly kissed his cheek.
‘‘So far, not bad,’’ she said. ‘‘At least I’m not drinking my way through it.’’
She indicated the whiskey glass he had left on the wide arm of the chair.
‘‘My first,’’ he lied, and she snorted.
Alicia kissed him, and then Isabela made smacking noises as far from his cheek as she could manage.
‘‘You all right, Enrico?’’ Claudia asked, and went to the bar. ‘‘Do as I say, not as I do,’’ she said, and poured a half-inch of scotch in a glass and tossed it down.
‘‘Life will be empty without el Coronel,’’ Enrico said.
‘‘You have Señor Cletus to take care of now,’’ Claudia said.
‘‘With my life, Señora,’’ Enrico said simply.
‘‘I wondered how you were going to handle Beatrice asking the Germans to come here,’’ Claudia said.
‘‘I’m indisposed,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Humberto set this up.’’
‘‘They’re downstairs, exuding condolences and charm,’’ she said.
Clete looked at Alicia. She nodded, signifying that Peter von Wachtstein was among them.
‘‘We don’t know that the Germans are responsible . . . ,’’ Isabelle said.
‘‘Jesus Christ, Isabela, not you and el Coronel Perón . . . ," Clete flared.
Claudia touched his arm to stop him.
‘‘What did you mean, about Colonel Perón?’’ Claudia asked.
‘‘I stopped by Uncle Willy’s house last night. He was there. And having just come back from Germany, he finds it impossible to believe that . . .’’
‘‘Juan Domingo was your father’s best friend.’’
‘‘So he said.’’
‘‘And you got off on the wrong foot.’’
Clete shrugged.
‘‘He’s going to be at the estancia over the weekend. You really should make an effort to get to know him.’’
‘‘You mean come out there? Why?’’
‘‘You didn’t know there’s going to be a requiem mass at Nuestra Señora de los Milagros for your father on Sunday? ’’
‘‘Not until just now, I didn’t. What’s that all about?’’
‘‘The people on the estancia naturally expect it. And there will be a number of other people. Your father’s— our—close friends. A private mass, so to speak, as opposed to what they did here today. There will be about forty people, counting wives and family.’’
‘‘And I have to go, naturally?’’
Going out there would give me a chance to go to the radio station. And the sooner I do that, the better.
‘‘Of course you must, Cletus. You’re the new Patrón of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. You’d better start getting used to that.’’
‘‘That’s not going to be easy.’’
‘‘The people of your estancia, many of whom have never seen you, will expect to see their Patrón there.’’
‘‘OK. Anything to get out of my father’s bedroom in the museum,’’ Clete said, and quickly added, ‘‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it came out.’’
‘‘I know,’’ she said, then went on: ‘‘There’s something else, Cletus. There are some papers in your father’s safe that belong to General Rawson. He’ll be staying with me at Estancia Santa Catalina, and I’d really like to have his papers for him when he arrives.’’
What kind of papers?
‘‘Oh?’’
‘‘You do have the combination to the safe, don’t you?’’
And that was just a little too casual a question.
‘‘I’ve never even seen the safe,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Enrico, what do you know about el Coronel’s safe? Where’s the combination?’’
‘‘Only el Coronel knew the combination, Señor Clete,’’ Enrico said.
‘‘Well, then, I guess General Rawson will have to wait for his papers until we can get a locksmith out there,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Or we could blow it open, if the papers are that important.’’
Claudia did not find that amusing.
‘‘I just can’t believe that your father didn’t write the combination down somewhere,’’ Claudia said. ‘‘Would you mind if I looked for it?’’
Yeah, as a matter of fact, I would. I don’t understand why, but the idea bothers me. Why do I have the feeling, Claudia, that you would rather that I don’t see what’s in the safe?
‘‘If this is important to you, Claudia, as soon as I get out there, I’ll call you, and we’ll look for it together,’’ he said.
‘‘I’m . . . the girls and I . . . are driving out to Santa Catalina tonight,’’ Claudia said. ‘‘I thought I’d go over to San Pedro y San Pablo tomorrow and see if I could find the combination. If you have no objection to my looking for it, that is.’’
I can’t have her getting into the safe before I do. I don’t want her looking through the records of what Humberto has been doing for Peter.
And have I just been sandbagged? Is that persistence innocent, or because she knows damned well I’m not likely to tell her no again, no matter how politely? And what is in that safe that she—and General Rawson—don’t want me to see?
&
nbsp; ‘‘Does ’G.O.U.’ mean anything to you, Claudia?’’ Clete asked.
He could see in her eyes that she knew what it was.
"What do you know about the G.O.U.?" she asked.
‘‘Not nearly as much as I would like to,’’ he said.
‘‘Clete . . . ,’’ she began, and stopped when a servant opened the door.
‘‘Señor Frade, Señor Mallín and his family wish to pay their respects.’’
‘‘I’ll leave you, Clete,’’ Claudia said. ‘‘This has been a very long day for me.’’
She gave him her cheek to kiss.
‘‘I need to talk to you, too, Claudia,’’ Clete said, thinking of Dorotéa.
‘‘Call me when you get to San Pedro y San Pablo,’’ she said, and then, ‘‘Let’s go, girls.’’
They left the room, exchanging quiet greetings with the Mallíns as they came in.
IX
[ONE] 1420 Avenida Alvear Buenos Aires, Argentina 1320 10 April 1943
Clete walked to the door to greet the Mallín family.
Enrico Mallín was forty-three years old, six feet two inches tall, and wore a full mustache. ‘‘Henry’’ met and married his wife, the former Pamela Holworth-Talley, while taking a degree at the London School of Economics. And they had two children: blond, fair-skinned, lanky ‘‘Little Enrico,’’ their fifteen-year-old son; and Dorotéa. In her black dress and veiled hat, Clete thought, she looked more beautiful than any female he had ever seen.
Clete was aware that Enrico Mallín believed his daughter had shown an interest in Clete that was inappropriate for one of her tender years, purity, and standing in the community.
If you could, Henry, you’d have paid pro forma respects to Beatrice and Humberto and taken your family out of here as quickly as possible. The only reason you’re up here to smile at me is because your business is dependent on the crude and refined petroleum products it gets from Howell Petroleum, and you don’t want to risk offending the Old Man’s grandson.
What the hell, if I was in your shoes, I’d probably feel the same way about me. Me being too old for your innocent nineteen-year-old daughter—which is true—isn’t one tenth of what’s wrong with Cletus H. Frade as a suitor. After what they tried to do to me—what they did to my father— only a lunatic would want his daughter—or any member of his family—within five miles of me.
‘‘Good afternoon, Señor Mallín. How good of you to call,’’ he said politely.
‘‘Our sympathy for your loss should go without speaking, Cletus. Your father was a magnificent man, who will be sorely missed.’’
‘‘Thank you.’’
‘‘Mrs. Mallín,’’ Clete went on. ‘‘How are you, Ma’am?’’
‘‘For the fifty-fifth time, Clete, please call me ‘Pamela, ’ ’’ Señora Mallín said, and gave him her cheek to kiss. ‘‘I’m so sorry about el Coronel.’’
‘‘Thank you,’’ Clete said.
‘‘What do you say, Enrico?’’ Clete said, and punched Little Enrico, man-to-man, on the arm.
‘‘I am very sorry about your father, Cletus,’’ Little Enrico said.
And then Clete turned to Dorotéa.
‘‘And the lovely Señorita Mallín,’’ he said, putting out his hand. ‘‘How have you been, Dorotéa?’’
‘‘Very well, thank you, all things considered,’’ Dorotéa said. ‘‘I’m very sorry about your loss, Clete.’’
‘‘Thank you.’’
‘‘And how is your grandfather, Cletus?’’ Henry Mallín asked.
‘‘Mean as a rattlesnake, as usual,’’ Clete said, immediately regretting it. The Argentine—and particularly the Anglo -Argentine—sense of humor was markedly different from that of Texas and Louisiana.
Little Henry made a noise somewhere between a chuckle and a giggle.
His father glared at him, then moved the glare to Clete.
Clete smiled at the man who was blissfully unaware he was about to become both a grandfather and a father-in-law.
‘‘My grandfather asked me to extend his best regards to you and your family, Señor Mallín,’’ he said.
‘‘How kind of him.’’
‘‘May I offer you some refreshment?’’
"No, thank you. We must be going. We wished to pay our respects."
‘‘It was very kind of you.’’
‘‘Clete, you come to see us, lunch, dinner, or just to visit, just as soon as you find time,’’ Señora Mallín said, to her husband’s discomfiture.
‘‘Yes, do that,’’ Dorotéa chimed in mischievously. ‘‘We have so much to talk about.’’
Her father headed for the door, followed by Little Henry, his wife, and Dorotéa. Without realizing he was doing it, Clete went after them, his hand reaching to touch Dorotéa’s shoulder as if with a mind of its own.
She turned, looked into his eyes, then touched her lips with her fingers and moved the kiss to Clete’s lips. Clete didn’t think either her father or her brother saw this, but he knew her mother did. She looked at Clete, asking without words what that was all about.
Clete met Dorotéa’s mother’s eyes, nodded his head, and shrugged.
I am forced to confirm herewith, Señora, your worst suspicions and fears. Well, maybe not your worst suspicions and fears.
‘‘Oh, my!’’ Pamela Mallín said. ‘‘Oh, my!’’ And then scurried quickly down the corridor after her husband.
Clete watched them for a moment and then turned.
Enrico was standing there, startling him, and then mystifying him. He was simultaneously solemnly winking at Clete and tapping his temple with his index finger.
What the hell is that all about?
‘‘It is here, Señor Clete,’’ Enrico said.
‘‘What’s there?’’
‘‘The combination to el Coronel’s safe.’’
‘‘Oh, really?’’
‘‘If you would like, I can drive out there tonight and bring the contents of the safe to you.’’
Clete’s next visitor interrupted the conversation. And again startled him.
‘‘Christ, where did you come from?’’ Clete blurted.
First Lieutenant Anthony J. Pelosi, Corps of Engineers, Army of the United States, had come through what a moment before Clete believed to be a solid, paneled wall.
‘‘What we will do, Enrico, is leave for San Pedro y San Pablo very early in the morning,’’ Clete said. He waited for Enrico to nod his understanding, then gave in to his curiosity and went to examine the door.
A masterpiece of fine carpentry—or is it cabinetmaking? —it blended invisibly with the paneled wall when closed. Only on close examination could Clete find a toe-activated panel that functioned as a doorknob.
‘‘It leads to the kitchen,’’ Tony Pelosi said. ‘‘Your uncle sent me up that way.’’
He was a swarthy, short young man who had two weeks before celebrated his twenty-first birthday. His muscular arms and chest strained the tunic of his pink and green Class ‘‘A’’ uniform.
The insignia of the Eighty-second Airborne Division was sewn on the sleeve of his tunic, and the breast carried silver parachutist’s wings and two medals. One was the Silver Star medal, the third-highest award for valor, and the other announced that the wearer had served in the American Theater of Operations. It was automatically awarded after ninety days of service. Pelosi’s sharply creased pink trousers were bloused around the tops of highly polished parachutist ’s jump boots.
Tony, Clete thought, is probably the only man in the U.S. Army, Navy, or Marine Corps who has won the Silver Star for service in the American Theater of Operations, which is defined as the continental United States and South America, theoretically far from any shots fired in anger.
‘‘How are you, Tony?’’ Clete said, turning to him and shaking his hand. ‘‘I went looking for you yesterday. You weren’t home.’’
‘‘I was probably standing in line at the Edificio Libertador, ’’ Tony said. It
alian emotions overwhelmed him. The handshake turned into an embrace. ‘‘Jesus, Clete, I’m sorry about your dad.’’
‘‘Thank you,’’ Clete said.
After the emotional moment passed, Tony, looking a little embarrassed, went to Enrico.
‘‘How are you, Sergeant Major?’’ he asked.
‘‘Mi Teniente,’’ Enrico said. Visibly torn between saluting an officer and embracing him, he finally did both.
‘‘You all right?’’ Tony asked when Enrico finally released him.
‘‘I am fine,’’ Enrico said.
‘‘He is not,’’ Clete said. ‘‘He took what was probably a .45 slug—it gouged a three-inch hole in his head—and he took 00-buckshot in his chest and arm.’’
‘‘Jesus!’’
‘‘I am fine,’’ Enrico repeated firmly.
Tony turned to Clete.
‘‘I couldn’t get into Our Lady of Pilar this morning, Clete. No invitation.’’
‘‘Sorry, I didn’t think about that.’’
‘‘But after the mass was over, I went in and lit a candle for him, and after that I went to the tomb and said a little prayer.’’
‘‘Thank you, Tony.’’
‘‘And after that I came here. And had trouble getting in, no invitation. But I threw a fit, and waved my diplomatic carnet around, and finally the cop outside caved in.’’
‘‘I just didn’t think about getting you invitations, Tony. I’m sorry.’’
‘‘Christ, you had enough on your mind, Clete. Don’t apologize.’’
Clete decided to lighten the conversation.
‘‘You look like a recruiting poster,’’ he said. ‘‘ ‘Join the Airborne and see the World.’ ’’
Tony did not react well to what Clete hoped would be a joke.
‘‘I thought wearing my uniform was the right thing to do,’’ he said. ‘‘And when I saw those fucking Krauts downstairs in theirs, I was glad I did. Sorry, if you think that was wrong.’’
‘‘It was the right thing to do, Tony. My father would have appreciated you wearing your uniform, and I do.’’
‘‘OK,’’ Tony said, accepting what he recognized as an apology, then moving to what was on his mind: ‘‘The Ambassador got a SECRET cable last night saying that Lieutenant Commander Frederico J. Delojo, the new Naval Attaché, would be on the Pan American flight today. You want to tell what that’s all about?’’
Blood and Honor Page 23
