Just as Clete noticed a brass sign reading ‘‘Claridge’s Hotel’’ on a building, Enrico turned off the street in the drive and stopped.
‘‘Here we are!’’ Humberto announced.
The restaurant was on the ground floor. The paneled walls, heavy furniture, and long bar reminded Clete of the Adolphus Hotel in Dallas.
Humberto was greeted, in English, by the headwaiter. Picking up on that, Clete noticed that the snippets of conversation he overheard as they were led past the crowded bar to the dining room were also in English.
English English, not American.
Seated at a table, waiting for them, were Señorita Dorotéa Mallín; her mother; Señora Claudia Carzino-Cormano; and three gentlemen of the cloth, only one of whom, Father Kurt Welner, he could identify by name.
Dorotéa was in her demure mood, he saw immediately. He was not surprised, when he went through the Argentine kissing ritual, that she moved her head in such a way as to absolutely preclude any accidental brushing of their lips.
‘‘Beatrice sends her regrets,’’ Humberto announced. ‘‘She has a migraine.’’
Pro forma expressions of regret were offered, but Clete saw relief on everyone’s face.
The clergymen were introduced. The tall, thin, balding one was the Very Reverend Matthew Cashley-Price of the Anglican Cathedral, and the jovial Irishman was Monsignor Patrick Kelly, who was one of the squad of clergy participating in his father’s funeral at Our Lady of Pilar.
The look the Very Reverend Mr. Cashley-Price gave Clete made it quite clear that while God might have forgiven a repentant Cletus Howell Frade for despoiling one of the virgins of his flock, he was not quite ready to do so.
‘‘There is very good news—’’ Father Welner said, then interrupted himself. ‘‘Would you like something to drink?’’
‘‘I think a little whiskey would go down nicely,’’ Clete said.
‘‘When you hear the good news,’’ Monsignor Kelly said, ‘‘you might wish to have champagne.’’
‘‘Whiskey now, champagne later?’’ Clete asked.
‘‘Poor Cletus has had a bad morning,’’ Humberto said. ‘‘Business, you understand.’’
He raised his hand with two fingers extended.
‘‘So have we all,’’ Dorotéa said.
‘‘You spoke to the Cardinal Archbishop, Father?’’ Humberto asked Father Welner.
‘‘His Eminence has graciously granted permission for the Very Reverend Cashley-Price to assist me in the nuptial mass,’’ Monsignor Kelly answered for him.
‘‘It will be necessary for you, Cletus—’’ the Very Reverend Mr. Cashley-Price began, and interrupted himself. ‘‘You don’t mind if I call you ‘Cletus,’ do you?’’
‘‘No, Father,’’ Clete said, deciding it was five-to-one Cashley-Price was High Church and would prefer that form of address.
‘‘It will be necessary, of course, Cletus, for you and Dorot éa to go through our premarital counseling. The Bishop was quite firm about that.’’
A waiter delivered two glasses dark with whiskey and set them before Clete and Humberto.
‘‘I’ll have one of those, please,’’ Claudia Carzino-Cormano said. ‘‘If you don’t mind. Pamela?’’
‘‘I think I’ll wait for the champagne,’’ Pamela Mallín said.
‘‘Bring some champagne,’’ Humberto ordered. ‘‘Something very nice.’’
Clete held up a hand to keep the waiter from adding ice or soda to his glass, picked it up, and took a deep swallow.
‘‘With the . . . uh . . . how shall I put it?’’ Cashley-Price went on, ‘‘time constraints placed upon us by the situation, we shall have to take care of that right away. I have an hour free tomorrow at three. We could have our first session then. Would that be convenient, Cletus? Dorotéa?’’
‘‘I’ll be out of town tomorrow,’’ Clete said.
‘‘You can’t be out of town tomorrow,’’ Dorotéa said.
‘‘It’s unavoidable, Dorotéa,’’ Humberto said. ‘‘He really has to go. Business, you understand, that just can’t be put off.’’
Thank you, Uncle Humberto!
‘‘Where is he going?’’ Dorotéa demanded.
‘‘Posadas,’’ Clete said.
‘‘To Estancia San Miguel,’’ Humberto added. ‘‘Business. ’’
‘‘And when will you be returning, Cletus?’’ Cashley-Price asked.
‘‘Why don’t I call you the minute I get back?’’ Clete said.
‘‘We are going to be very pressed for time,’’ Cashley-Price said.
Waiters appeared with Claudia’s drink and champagne.
The first waiter held back until the second waiter had poured the champagne before passing out menus.
Humberto ordered a second bottle of champagne.
Two of Humberto’s acquaintances stopped at the table to shake his hand.
Clete glanced at Dorotéa, who was scowling at him.
‘‘Cletus, I know what you’re thinking,’’ she said. ‘‘We have to meet with Father Cashley-Price.’’
‘‘I know that,’’ Clete said, and smiled at her.
‘‘They do a very nice rack of lamb in here,’’ Humberto announced.
‘‘May I toast the happy couple?’’ Father Welner said, raising his glass.
‘‘If we have a morning ceremony,’’ Pamela Mallín said, ‘‘people won’t expect to be asked to stay over.’’
‘‘Well, some people will have to stay over anyway,’’ Claudia argued. ‘‘And afternoon ceremonies are so much nicer.’’
‘‘I’m not hungry at all,’’ Dorotéa said.
‘‘You have to eat, dear,’’ Pamela Mallín said.
‘‘I’m eating for two, is that what you’re saying, Mother?’’
‘‘That’s not what I meant at all.’’
‘‘The lamb sounds good to me,’’ Clete said.
‘‘There is one question, Cletus, I have to ask,’’ Monsignor Kelly announced. ‘‘You have been baptized as a Christian, haven’t you?’’
‘‘You’re missing the whole point, Father,’’ Father Welner said. ‘‘Of course he has. The Church regards him as one of ours. There is no question about that. Actually, I really think that the reason His Eminence granted the dispensation was because he agrees—as do many people in Rome—with the idea that Anglican Holy Orders, and certainly those of Father Cashley-Price—are valid. If that is the case, then—’’
‘‘Will you excuse me, please?’’ Clete said. ‘‘I have to wash my hands.’’
There were caricatures of Emperor Hirohito, Adolf Hitler, and Benito Mussolini inside the white china urinals in the men’s room.
Clete wondered idly if there were caricatures of Franklin Roosevelt, Winston Churchill, and Charles de Gaulle in the urinals of the Kempinski Hotel across town.
‘‘Giving Adolf a good Spritz, are you?’’ a somewhat familiar voice asked behind him. ‘‘Or did that double scotch you just tossed down so fast affect your aim?’’
Clete looked over his shoulder and saw Milton Leibermann.
‘‘Take your time, Tex,’’ Leibermann said. ‘‘When a man’s got to go, he’s got to go.’’
Clete’s initial annoyance disappeared. He had to smile.
Leibermann, moving very quickly, pushed open all the doors to the toilet stalls in the men’s room to make sure they were empty, then walked to the men’s room door and jammed his furled umbrella into the chrome pull-handles. He tested it to make sure the doors could not be opened, then turned and smiled at Clete.
‘‘What did you do, Sherlock, follow me?’’
‘‘You wouldn’t believe I eat here all the time?’’
‘‘Of course I would. Would anybody in your line of business lie?’’
‘‘So what’s new, Tex?’’
‘‘Not much, Milton.’’
‘‘Strange, I thought that over the weekend you might have heard something I’d like to
know.’’
‘‘Not a thing.’’
‘‘Not even that they’re going to have their little revolution? I keep hearing things that make me think it’s going to be damned soon.’’
‘‘I didn’t hear a thing. Maybe they’re trying to keep it a secret.’’
‘‘And maybe you wouldn’t tell me if you knew,’’ Leibermann said. ‘‘Tell you what I’m going to do, Tex. I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt.’’
‘‘Thank you.’’
‘‘I’ll even tell you something I heard that you will want to know.’’
‘‘What’s that?’’
‘‘That SS colonel we were talking about? He put out a contract on your man Ettinger.’’
‘‘What’s a contract?’’
‘‘Murder Incorporated? Lewis ‘Lepke’ Buchalter? Ring a bell? Nice Jewish boy who went bad?’’ Buchalter was an infamous assassin for hire in New York City.
‘‘I’ve heard the name.’’
‘‘I used to spend a lot of time with his income tax records, ’’ Leibermann said. ‘‘Anyway, a contract means you pay somebody to murder somebody else. Colonel Goltz put out a contract on your man Ettinger."
"Is that so?"
‘‘Either you don’t give a damn or you already heard.’’
‘‘I already heard,’’ Clete said. ‘‘But . . . honest, Leibermann, thank you.’’
‘‘I thought it very interesting. Just Ettinger. Not you and the paratrooper who blows things up. Just Ettinger. Was that because Ettinger’s a Jew, do you think? Or do you have him doing something the Germans don’t like, Jew or no Jew?’’
‘‘The latter,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Or that’s what I think.’’
‘‘You want to tell me what?’’
Clete shook his head, ‘‘no.’’
‘‘Maybe I already know about what he’s looking for,’’ Leibermann said.
‘‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’’
‘‘Maybe I could tell him something that would keep him alive,’’ Leibermann said. ‘‘You were lucky, what happened to you. They got people down here who could give lessons to Buchalter.’’
‘‘I met a couple,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Not nice people.’’
‘‘Tell him to be careful.’’
‘‘I have.’’
‘‘Your friend von Wachtstein flew Goltz to Montevideo yesterday, and flew him back today. You don’t happen to know what that’s all about?’’
‘‘ ‘My friend von Wachtstein’?’’
Christ, I’m supposed to meet Peter tonight at The Fish. I’ll be on my way to Santo Tomé instead.
‘‘He was a guest of honor at your father’s requiem mass at your estancia.’’
‘‘You must have friends all over,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Von Wachtstein was there for good manners. He’s running around with one of the Carzino-Cormano girls.’’
‘‘So I heard. You ever think of trying to make friends with him?’’
‘‘He’s a German officer, for Christ’s sake.’’
‘‘You see Boys’ Town? Spencer Tracy said ‘there’s no such thing as a bad boy,’ meaning Mickey Rooney. I figure maybe that all Germans aren’t bad. As a matter of fact, I know a couple of good ones. Maybe von Wachtstein’s one of the good ones. You ever hear the phrase ‘turning an agent’?’’
‘‘No. But I can guess what it means.’’
‘‘Think about it, Tex,’’ Leibermann said. ‘‘And think about telling me why the Germans, the bad ones, they call them ‘Nazis,’ want Ettinger dead.’’
He walked to the door and pulled his umbrella free.
‘‘Oh. I almost forgot. Mazel tov. That means congratulations, good luck.’’
‘‘What for?’’
‘‘Isn’t that a happy bridal party out there? Should be a hell of a wedding, with three priests.’’
He pushed the door open and walked out.
Clete washed his hands and then rejoined the happy bridal party.
XVII
[ONE] El Palomar Airfield Buenos Aires, Argentina 1725 14 April 1943
Standartenführer Goltz and Peter von Wachtstein came to be on a—one-way—first-name basis moments after they stepped into Oberst Grüner’s Mercedes at the Embassy. Peter thought it interesting that Goltz did not make the overture of friendship—if that’s what it was—while they were in Uruguay.
‘‘Which do you prefer your friends to call you, von Wachtstein,’’ Goltz asked with a smile, ‘‘ ‘Hans-Peter’ or ‘Hans’ or ‘Peter’?’’
‘‘ ‘Hans,’ Herr Standartenführer.’’
That was not true. From the age of six, he had learned to increasingly loathe the connection people seemed too frequently to make between Hansel—the affectionate diminutive of Hans—von Wachtstein, and the sweet little boy in the ‘‘Hansel & Gretel’’ fairy tale. Since it proved impossible to punch the nose of everyone who, after fair warning, called him ‘‘Hans,’’ he adopted the reverse philosophy. Since only assholes would call him ‘‘Hans,’’ he would encourage all assholes to do so.
‘‘You wouldn’t mind if I called you ‘Hans,’ would you, von Wachtstein?’’
‘‘Not at all, Herr Standartenführer.’’
‘‘There is a time, wouldn’t you agree, when a certain informality between officers is not only permissible but desirable? ’’
‘‘I have often thought so, Herr Standartenführer.’’
‘‘The secret, Hans, is for the junior in such circumstances to correctly predict when the senior is not in the mood for informality. I speak from experience. I once made the mistake —when I myself was a Sturmbannführer,27by the way—of calling Brigadeführer28Max Ruppert . . . Do you know him, by the way?’’
‘‘I have not had that privilege, Herr Standartenführer.’’
‘‘Fine chap. Splendid officer. For a time, he commanded the Liebstandarte Adolf Hitler. Anyway, he was not at the time in a mood to be addressed as ‘Max’ by a lowly Sturmbannf ührer, even one he’d known for years. He gave me a dressing-down I still recall painfully.’’
Peter laughed dutifully.
If that little vignette was intended to caution me not to call you by your first name, it was unnecessary.
Goltz chatted amiably all the way out to the airport, saying nothing important. But also nothing, Peter realized, that seemed in any way unusually curious or threatening, just idle chatter.
But from the moment Goltz suggested ‘‘they have a little chat’’ with drinks and dinner to follow, Peter felt uncomfortable. Not only was the very idea that Goltz would go along with him to El Palomar unnerving—it would almost certainly interfere with the talk he must have with Dieter— but there was certainly a reason for Goltz’s charm, and Peter wondered what it was, what Goltz wanted from him.
As they approached the passenger terminal, the Condor came into view.
‘‘There it is,’’ Peter said. ‘‘It’s a beautiful bird, isn’t it?’’
The Condor was sitting, plugged into fuel trucks and other ground-support equipment, on the tarmac in front of the passenger terminal.
‘‘You miss flying, Hans?’’ Standartenführer Goltz asked.
‘‘Very much, Herr Standartenführer,’’ Peter replied.
Günther pulled the car into one of the spaces reserved for the Corps Diplomatique, jumped out, and pulled the door open for Goltz.
‘‘I’m going to have a word with Nabler, Hans,’’ Goltz said when Peter had gotten out of the car. ‘‘A personal matter. Is there somewhere we could have a coffee while you’re dealing with the diplomatic pouches?’’
‘‘There is a small restaurant in the terminal, Herr Standartenf ührer.’’
‘‘Well, then why don’t you see if you can find Nabler for me, and tell him where I’ll be?’’
‘‘Of course, Herr Standartenführer.’’
What’s the connection between him and Nabler? When Dieter warned me to watch out for Nabler, I thought it was
simply because he was an enthusiastic Nazi. If Goltz wants a word with him, he’s more than that. What? Is he keeping an eye on Dieter specially, or is it just that the SS likes to keep an eye on everybody who’s able to spend time out of Germany? What Dieter said when he couldn’t get away from Nabler was that Nabler was following him around like a horny dachshund chasing a Great Dane in heat. Was that coincidental, or is Nabler watching Dieter? And if so, why?
He watched Goltz walk toward the terminal and then went to the back of the car to help Günther with the diplomatic pouches. There were four. Three were mailbag-type pouches and the fourth was a steel box.
‘‘I can manage these, Herr Major Freiherr,’’ Günther said.
‘‘Your offer is tempting, Günther, but unfortunately I’m not supposed to let them out of my sight.’’
He grabbed two of the pouches and started dragging them to the gate in the fence. When he was through it, he saw Dieter and Karl Nabler walking around under the Condor, doing the preflight.
He walked toward them, looking over his shoulder to see that Günther was following him, staggering under the weight of the third pouch and the steel box.
‘‘Christ,’’ Dieter said, ‘‘that’s all I need. What the hell is in that steel box, Peter?’’
‘‘They don’t confide in me.’’
‘‘What do you figure all that crap weighs?’’
‘‘I know precisely what it weighs. A hundred forty point two kilos,’’ Peter said. ‘‘Hello, Nabler.’’
‘‘Herr Major,’’ Nabler replied.
‘‘That’s going to put me, with fuel aboard, about three hundred kilos over max gross,’’ Dieter said.
‘‘You should have thought about your intended cargo before you loaded your fuel,’’ Peter said. ‘‘We of the Luftwaffe call that ‘flight planning.’ ’’
‘‘Thank you so much for the advice,’’ Dieter said sarcastically. ‘‘Kiss my ass, Peter.’’
‘‘Standartenführer Goltz wants a word with you, Nabler, ’’ Peter said. ‘‘He’s in the . . . Günther, would you take First Officer Nabler to Standartenführer Goltz?’’
Blood and Honor Page 46
