‘‘I am sure that Dorotéa, or her mother, knows one of my erring brother priests of the Anglican persuasion who could be induced into performing, quietly, one of your pagan rituals. You could tell your grandfather about that ceremony. ’’
‘‘I’ll be damned,’’ Clete said.
‘‘Not for getting married, I wouldn’t think.’’
‘‘I mean, that’s all there is to it? It can be arranged?’’
‘‘It can be arranged, because it has to be arranged. Would you like me to speak with Claudia and your uncle Humberto? ’’
Clete nodded. ‘‘I’d be grateful. I’m a coward.’’
‘‘No,’’ Welner said. ‘‘A confused young man, perhaps, but not a coward.’’ He looked at his watch. ‘‘I’ll have to telephone Buenos Aires and break an appointment,’’ he said. ‘‘No problem. I really didn’t want to drive in there and then have to drive right back. Humberto and your aunt Beatrice will probably arrive here in time for tea. I’ll go see Claudia now, and come back in time to be here when they arrive.’’
‘‘I’m very grateful,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Thank you.’’
‘‘That’s what priests are for, you know. Trying to help people follow God’s commandments.’’
He shook Clete’s hand firmly and walked out of the library.
That’s one clever sonofabitch, Clete thought. A used-car salesman in a clerical collar. I should check to see if I still have all my fingers after that politician’s handshake, and then see if I still have my wristwatch and wallet. I don’t have the foggiest idea what, but he wants something from me.
That said, why do I feel a hell of a lot better right now than I have since I came down here? Because he said he’s going to fix things about Dorotéa. And I think he will. And if he can, he can have anything he wants.
Within reason.
XII
[ONE] Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province 1125 11 April 1943
Enrico rose to his feet when Clete came out of the library. He had been sitting in one of the massive wooden armchairs that lined the wide corridors of the house, spaced every ten feet in nearly military precision, like soldiers guarding a perimeter. They were nearly square, and their only upholstery was thick, deeply tooled cowhide saddle leather nailed to the backrests, seats, and armrests.
‘‘Whose airplane did I hear landing?’’ Clete asked.
‘‘I have sent Rudolpho to find out.’’
The logical thing is to be patient. Rudolpho will be back in a minute with an explanation. What difference does it make, anyway?
To hell with it.
Enrico caught up with him as he walked down the verandah steps.
‘‘Are there any more airplanes around here that I don’t know about?’’
‘‘That was not one of our airplanes, Señor Clete.’’
‘‘Who the hell could it be?’’
Enrico shrugged.
‘‘Tell me about my father and Padre Welner,’’ Clete said.
Enrico looked uncomfortable, reminding Clete of Welner ’s statement that he was ‘‘no more opaque’’ than his father.
‘‘Come on, Enrico!’’
‘‘El Coronel did not treat the Padre with the proper respect, ’’ Enrico said. ‘‘They often argued. Many times, your father raised his voice to him. He even called the Padre by his Christian name, sometimes even in my presence.’’
‘‘What did they argue about?’’
‘‘Matters that a man should not argue about with a priest,’’ Enrico said.
‘‘Such as?’’
‘‘Heaven, Hell, absolution. The sacraments. What happens between men and women.’’
In other words, el Padre and el Coronel were friends.
They were through the garden now, and through the windbreak.
A high-wing monoplane, a two-seater, painted in something like olive drab, with an Argentine military insignia— a blue bull’s-eye with a white center—on its fuselage was parked alongside two of the Piper Cubs, dwarfing them.
What the hell is that thing? It looks like the Cadillac version of a Piper Cub. Christ, that’s what it is. A military observation airplane. Probably German. I’ve never seen anything like it before, and they don’t make airplanes in Argentina.
Standing beside it, their passage barred by Rudolpho, who was carrying a shotgun, were two men. One, in a baggy flight suit, was obviously the pilot. The other was wearing a cavalry officer’s uniform, complete to highly polished riding boots. Clete recognized him immediately, although he had seen him only twice before in his life.
What the hell is el Teniente Coronel Martín doing here? The first thing that comes to mind, of course, is that he’s after OUTLINE BLUE, and the money. I can’t think of any other reason he’d be here. But who does he want it for? He’s Internal Security—read counterintelligence—charged with protecting the government from operations like OUTLINE BLUE. If he’s working for Castillo, and I turn that over to him, that’s the end of OUTLINE BLUE, and all the players are going to find themselves blindfolded and tied to a stake in front of a wall.
Jesus, why did he show up here now? I need time to think.
When he saw Clete and Enrico walking toward them, the pilot nudged Martín, who looked toward them.
The first time Martín met Clete was the night of the incident at the Frade guest house on Avenida del Libertador. After being advised of the shooting by agents he had assigned to surveille the house, and by Frade himself, he had rushed to the house. He arrived on the heels of the Policía Federal, who by then had arrested the OSS agent. They were about to take him to police headquarters for questioning, but Martín used the superior authority of the BIS to take the ‘‘incident’’ under BIS control, which did not endear him to the Policía Federal officer-in-charge.
In the kitchen he found the Frade housekeeper with her throat cut, bathed in her own blood. Upstairs he found two dead men, both shot to death by the man they had come to murder. From the evidence, he judged that one of them had been shot—killed instantly—by the OSS agent in self-defense. The second assassin was wounded in the first confrontation. Frade then went to check on the woman, found her with her throat cut, and then returned upstairs in a rage to dispatch the second assassin. Which he did with three shots—all that remained in the pistol—one of which blew the assassin’s brains all over the bathroom, where he had crawled.
It was rather a surprising loss of control by a professional, he thought at the time.
The ‘‘incident’’ forced Martín to abandon his neutral status as a BIS officer and choose sides between the government of President Castillo and the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos, led by el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade, who were plotting Castillo’s ouster.
He still sometimes wondered if by choosing the latter he had righteously selected the forces of good over the forces of evil; or whether the notion that the Castillo-controlled Policía Federal were charging with murder the intended victim of an assassination paid for by the Germans had so outraged his sense of right and wrong that he just couldn’t stand idly by.
Or, even less appealing, he wondered if he had chosen sides because he was aware that el Coronel Frade was likely to be the next President of the Argentine Republic and in a position to punish anyone who had assisted those responsible for the murder of his housekeeper and the arrest of his only son. Or to reward those who had been helpful.
After a good deal of thought, Martín was able to conclude only that he had no one reason to act as he had. It was a combination of several reasons. He could only hope that time would show he’d acted in the best interests of Argentina.
What he did was summon an Army ambulance from the Dr. Cosme Argerich Military Hospital and order the OSS agent confined there, incognito, until further notice, for ‘‘medical examination.’’
Afterward, it took some creative investigative techniques to develop the evidence necessary to support the conclusions in his Official Report of Investi
gation that Victim Frade had acted in self-defense and had broken no laws. But two days later, Martín was able to visit Frade in the hospital and inform him officially that the incident was closed and he could now leave the hospital. He also suggested then, unofficially, that Frade leave the country as soon as possible.
Clete walked up to Martín and put out his hand.
‘‘How are you, mi Coronel?’’ he asked. ‘‘What a pleasant surprise.’’
‘‘Please forgive the intrusion,’’ Martín said. ‘‘I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think it was necessary.’’
‘‘No intrusion at all,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Very interesting airplane. What is it?’’
‘‘A Fieseler Storch, Señor,’’ the pilot said. ‘‘German.’’
‘‘Forgive me,’’ Martín said. ‘‘Mayor Frade, may I present Capitán Birra?’’
‘‘A sus órdenes, mi mayor,’’ the pilot said politely.
‘‘I can’t seem to get anyone down here to accept the fact that I am no longer a serving officer,’’ Clete said.
‘‘Is that so?’’ Martín said.
‘‘That’s so,’’ Clete said.
"At one time, Capitán, Señor Frade was an aviator in the norteamericano Corps of Marines,’’ Martín said. ‘‘Why don’t you show him around the plane?’’
‘‘It would be my pleasure, Señor,’’ Capitán Birra said, and motioned Clete toward the airplane.
‘‘It was in this type aircraft, I believe, Señor Frade, that the late Capitán Duarte lost his life in Russia,’’ Martín said.
Clete was already sorry he had started the whole business, and it got worse. Capitán Birra was justifiably proud of his airplane. It was designed for the same purpose— liaison and artillery spotting—as aircraft used by the Army and the Marine Corps. The difference was that the aircraft more or less affectionately called ‘‘puddle jumpers’’ used by the Corps were Piper Cubs right off the civilian assembly line. This thing, Wildcat pilot Frade could not honestly deny, was a real airplane. It wasn’t a Wildcat, of course, but neither was it a Cub.
And Capitán Birra lost no time in politely telling him the Storch had a 240-horsepower engine, a range of 800 miles, and a cruise speed of 115 m.p.h. The Cubs Clete had flown several times on Guadalcanal had 75-horse engines and a range of no more than whatever two hours at about 70 miles an hour added up to. Then Capitán Birra politely asked if it was really true that ‘‘Americans used ‘little civilian planes like the Piper’ in combat.’’
‘‘If you are free, Señor Frade, I would be happy to give you a ride.’’
‘‘That’s very kind of you, Capitán,’’ Clete said. ‘‘But I’m sure el Coronel Martín is pressed for time.’’
‘‘Perhaps some other time, Señor Frade,’’ Martín said. ‘‘Is there somewhere we could talk?’’
‘‘Certainly. Why don’t we go up to the house?’’
‘‘May I offer my condolences on your loss?’’
‘‘Thank you very much.’’
Clete led him back through the windbreak and garden into the house. He told Rudolpho to see that Capitán Birra had whatever he needed, then took Martín into the library. Enrico followed them in and stationed himself in a chair near the door.
Clete waved Martín into one of the armchairs and sat down in another.
‘‘I’ve never seen you in uniform before, mi Coronel.’’
‘‘I wear it from time to time to remind myself that I am an officer, not a policeman,’’ Martín said. ‘‘I’m glad to find you here, Señor Frade.’’
‘‘There’s a memorial mass for my father tomorrow. I had to be here for that, of course.’’
‘‘I meant, arriving unannounced, that I was afraid that you might be out at your radio station,’’ Martín said. ‘‘And I don’t have much time.’’
I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. That casual matter-of-fact reference to my supposedly secret radio station was purposefully made by a real professional, and this goddamned amateur doesn’t know how to reply.
‘‘How may I be of service, mi Coronel?’’
‘‘General Rawson and Coronel Perón are coming to see you,’’ Martín said. ‘‘Probably before, but possibly after, your father’s memorial service.’’
‘‘I’ve heard something . . .’’
‘‘What they want is OUTLINE BLUE . . .’’
‘‘Excuse me?’’
‘‘OUTLINE BLUE,’’ Martín repeated, ‘‘and the money that has been collected in connection with OUTLINE BLUE.’’
‘‘I really have no idea what you’re talking about,’’ Clete said.
Martín did not even acknowledge the denial.
‘‘The reason I wanted to see you before they came was to suggest to you—as one reasonable professional to another —that it would be in everybody’s best interest for you to hand it over to them.’’
‘‘Not, to repeat, that I have any idea what you’re talking about, but if I did have something like that, why would it be in my best interests to hand it over to you?’’
‘‘What I said, Mayor Frade—’’
"Señor Frade, if you don’t mind, mi Coronel.’’
‘‘Excuse me. My memory seems to be about as bad as yours. What I actually said, Señor Frade, was that it would be ‘in everybody’s best interests,’ not just yours, to turn over OUTLINE BLUE and the money to General Rawson. I can understand why you wouldn’t want to turn it over to me.’’
‘‘Not to you? I mean if I knew what you’re talking about, and if I had it.’’
‘‘You’re a professional, as I am. You don’t know who I’m really working for. If I were in your shoes . . .’’
Clete remembered then that Enrico had said that Martín ‘‘was now one of us.’’
Does this guy really think I’m a professional? Or is that el soft soapo?
‘‘Tell me why it would be in everybody’s best interests. Yours for example, mi Coronel.’’
‘‘At half past nine this morning, General Ramírez went to your house on Libertador to meet with General Rawson and el Coronel Perón. The subject of their conversation was to be how to retrieve OUTLINE BLUE, and the money, from your safe.’’
‘‘You seem pretty sure it’s in my safe. How is that? And what safe are we talking about, mi Coronel?’’
Martín smiled at him and shrugged.
‘‘I didn’t think this would be easy,’’ he said. ‘‘But if you insist . . . Since OUTLINE BLUE and the money are not in the house on Coronel Díaz, or in the Libertador House, or in any of your father’s safety-deposit boxes.’’
‘‘You looked, did you?’’
‘‘Let us say I am confident about what I just said,’’ Mart ín said. ‘‘So, by the process of elimination, and because keeping it here would have made more sense to your father than keeping it anywhere else, I think we can all reasonably presume that it’s here. Specifically, in the safe in your father ’s private study.’’
‘‘Is that the safe Señora Carzino-Cormano was asking you about, Enrico? The one you said only el Coronel had the combination to?’’
"Sí, Señor Mayor.’’
‘‘Forgive me, Suboficial Mayor,’’ Martín said. ‘‘But not only do I think that you know the combination to the safe, but el Coronel Perón thinks you do, too. He told General Ramírez that last night.’’
Enrico looked very uncomfortable.
‘‘You were telling me why it would be in your best interests if I gave it to Rawson, if I had what you’re talking about,’’ Clete said.
‘‘Again, I said, ‘everybody’s best interests,’ ’’ Martín said.
‘‘OK, everybody’s,’’ Clete said.
‘‘A good many officers, friends of your father’s, who feel as he did that the present government of Argentina must be replaced . . .’’
‘‘Let’s stop the fencing,’’ Clete said. ‘‘What’s in it for you, mi Coronel, if I hand over OUTLINE BLUE, and the mon
ey, to you?’’
Martín met Clete’s eyes.
‘‘It would keep me from receiving an order I would much prefer not to carry out.’’
‘‘What order would that be?’’
‘‘To take whatever steps are necessary to obtain OUTLINE BLUE and the money.’’
‘‘And what would be in it for me?’’ Clete asked.
‘‘Aside from my profound gratitude, you mean?’’ Martín asked, smiling.
‘‘Aside from your profound gratitude.’’
‘‘What did you have in mind?’’
Christ, he called my bluff. He’s a professional, and he knows when to call a bluff. So what do I say now? Think, for Christ’s sake!
That SS colonel!
‘‘An SS colonel arrived on the same plane as el Coronel Perón from Germany—’’ Clete said.
‘‘Goltz,’’ Martín interrupted. ‘‘Josef Goltz. What about him?’’
‘‘I’m a curious man, mi Coronel. Who is he, and what does he want here?’’
‘‘He’s in the secret service of the SS,’’ Martín said. ‘‘I have no idea what he’s doing here. What’s your interest in him?’’
‘‘I’m wondering if he’s the man who ordered my father’s murder.’’
‘‘A moment ago you suggested we stop fencing. Very well. I don’t really know if he ordered your father’s assassination, but it’s probable. I do know that early this morning he ordered the assassination of your man Ettinger. I learned that just before we took off.’’
Ettinger? And not me? What the hell is that all about?
‘‘I don’t suppose you’d want to tell me who told you that? From General Ramírez?’’
Martín shook his head and smiled. ‘‘A reliable source,’’ he said.
‘‘I don’t suppose your reliable source had any specifics on when and where? Or, for that matter, why?’’
Martín shook his head.
‘‘Only the sooner the better. I would regard the threat as very real if I were you, Señor Frade.’’
I believe him. And if he knows about that, it’s one more proof that he’s a professional, and I am out of my league trying to match wits with him. I don’t have any choice but to trust him.
Blood and Honor Page 32
