‘‘What?’’ Clete asked as his memory kicked in half a second later and identified Father Matthew as the Very Reverend Matthew Cashley-Price of the Anglican Cathedral. Provided Clete and Dorotéa underwent premarital counseling under his direction, Father Matthew was going to unite them in holy matrimony.
‘‘Cletus, damn you, you heard what Father Matthew said. We have to have premarital counseling. He’s called twice a day since you . . . since you disappeared. Where have you been? Where are you?’’
‘‘Honey, you just have to stall him for a couple of days.’’
‘‘That’s simply out of the question,’’ Dorotéa announced with feminine imperialism. ‘‘I don’t care where you are or what you’re doing, you have to call Father Matthew, right now, apologize, and set up an appointment.’’
‘‘I can’t, Princess,’’ Clete said.
Her entire tone of voice changed.
‘‘My God, you’re in some sort of trouble.’’
‘‘No.’’
That’s not the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. But at the moment, I’m not actually in trouble.
‘‘Yes, you are. I can tell by your voice.’’
‘‘Honey, I’m not,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Really, I’m not. But I’m ... tied up . . .’’
‘‘Tied up how?’’
‘‘. . . for the next couple of days.’’
‘‘Tied up how?’’
‘‘With rope. To the bed.’’
‘‘You don’t really think you’re funny?’’
‘‘Princess, you’re just going to have to trust me.’’
‘‘Why should I?’’
Clete replied with the truth without thinking much about the possible ramifications of that.
‘‘You don’t have any choice, honey,’’ he said.
Dorotéa hung up on him.
He was standing with the handset in his hand, his finger holding down the switch, wondering whether it would be better to call her back or not, when he heard the door creak open.
Teniente Colonel Bernardo Martín and Capitán Roberto Lauffer came into the room. Martín was in mufti and carrying a well-worn leather briefcase, while Lauffer was not only in uniform but wearing a Sam Browne belt with a saber hanging from one side of it, an Argentine .45 automatic in a glistening molded leather holster riding high on the other side.
Enrico, who had been sitting on the windowsill, stood up and came to attention.
Lauffer waved his hand at him to stand at ease.
‘‘If I’d known there was a telephone in here, I would have had it removed,’’ Martín said, turning his back to Clete as he closed the door. He turned and asked: ‘‘Who were you talking to?’’
Clete—just in time—bit off the ‘‘none of your goddamned business’’ reply that came to his lips.
For one thing, who I talk to is his business, and for another, he has enough to worry about without getting into a verbal duel with me.
‘‘My . . . fiancée,’’ Clete said.
‘‘Oh. You didn’t happen to tell her where you were, did you?’’
‘‘No. Nor where I’ve been. She was curious about that, too.’’
Lauffer smiled.
‘‘What was the subject of your conversation?’’ Martín asked, and Clete saw a faint smile on his face too, before he added, ‘‘Or is that too intimate a question for a gentleman such as myself to ask?’’
‘‘The Very Reverend Matthew Cashley-Price, of the Anglican Cathedral,’’ Clete said, and had to smile, ‘‘is apparently greatly annoyed that I have been unable to fit him and his premarital counseling into my busy schedule. And consequently, so is the lady.’’
‘‘Shame on you,’’ Martín said, now smiling wickedly. ‘‘Before taking a serious step, like marriage, one should have all sorts of counseling. How did the conversation end?’’
‘‘She hung up on me when I said she had no choice but to trust me,’’ Clete said.
Lauffer chuckled.
‘‘It would appear that your charming fiancée and I have the same problem,’’ Martín said. ‘‘We both have no choice but to trust you. As we both do, I’m sure. The question is not if we trust you, really, but how far, isn’t it?’’
Clete felt his temper start to simmer.
I’m here, aren’t I? With the airplane?
‘‘You have no reason not to trust me, Coronel,’’ Clete said.
No longer smiling, Martín looked at him for a long moment.
‘‘I inform you now, Mayor Frade,’’ he announced formally, ‘‘that you are a prisoner of the armed forces of the Provisional Government of Argentina, and ask you now, Mayor Frade, if, as an officer and a gentleman, you will offer your parole to me?’’
Clete’s temper began to boil over.
‘‘A prisoner? What the hell is that all about?’’
‘‘A record will be made of your arrest,’’ Martín said. ‘‘And of the seizure by the Provisional Government of your aircraft. In the event events do not go as planned, those records will come into the possession of the Castillo government. Possibly, they may—’’
‘‘Oh, come on, Martín!’’ Clete interrupted. ‘‘If you can’t pull OUTLINE BLUE off, and we all get arrested, Castillo’s people will look at my, quote, arrest, unquote, and the, quote, seizure, unquote, of the Lockheed and see it for what it is, a transparent attempt to get me off the hook. Christ, they know damned well my father started the whole goddamned thing!’’
‘‘What are you saying?’’
‘‘I’m saying that when I landed that airplane here, I knew what I was getting myself into.’’
‘‘That’s what General Rawson thought you would say,’’ Lauffer said emotionally, ‘‘as your father’s son, as the great-grandson of General Pueyrredón. That you would join us!’’
‘‘Don’t get carried away, Roberto,’’ Clete said. ‘‘I’ll fly the airplane, if it comes down to that, but I’m not enlisting in your army.’’
‘‘Actually, the subject of a temporary commission did come up,’’ Martín said. ‘‘Would you be willing—’’
‘‘I already have a Marine Corps commission,’’ Clete said.
‘‘This would be a temporary commission,’’ Martín said. ‘‘It would solve a lot of problems. . . .’’
‘‘Would I have to swear an oath? Of allegiance?’’
‘‘Yes, naturally. Of course.’’
‘‘The moment I did that,’’ Clete said, ‘‘I would lose my American citizenship.’’
‘‘That would be difficult for you?’’
‘‘Yeah, it would,’’ Clete said without thinking about it. ‘‘I don’t want to do that.’’
He happened to glance at Martín’s eyes.
And saw in them that he had just closed a door that would never again be opened.
If I had accepted that temporary commission under these circumstances, where accepting it might mean that I would find myself standing in front of a wall with Rawson, Martín, and Lauffer, even if it lasted only three days, they would thereafter have accepted me as a bona fide Argentine. Now that will never happen.
Well, so be it. I’m an American. I don’t want to give that up.
‘‘That leaves you, of course,’’ Martín said, cordially enough, ‘‘as the English would put it, as neither fish nor good red meat.’’
‘‘I guess it does,’’ Clete said.
‘‘I’m turning you over to Capitán Lauffer,’’ Martín said. ‘‘Until this is over, I want you to be with him. If using the airplane becomes necessary, you will receive that word from him.’’
‘‘Fine with me,’’ Clete said.
‘‘As an officer and a gentleman, I would like you to give me your parole,’’ Martín said.
‘‘What kind of a parole?’’
‘‘That you will not leave Campo de Mayo, nor communicate with anyone outside Campo de Mayo, without the express permission of Capitán Lauffer or myself.’’
/> ‘‘I’ve already told you that I’ll fly the airplane. But I will need to use the telephone. What if I give you my word I will not mention, in any way, OUTLINE BLUE?’’
‘‘I don’t think you’re talking about telephoning your fianc ée,’’ Martín said. ‘‘You’re concerned about Sergeant Ettinger? Is that what you mean?’’
Clete nodded.
‘‘Delgano told you he took the car ferry to Montevideo? ’’
Clete nodded again.
‘‘I’m sorry, Mayor,’’ Martín said. ‘‘You will not be in any position to help Ettinger until OUTLINE BLUE has run its course. If I hear anything, I will let you know. I will require your parole.’’
‘‘Or what?’’
‘‘Or I will place an armed guard at your door.’’
‘‘OK,’’ Clete said. ‘‘I won’t try to leave, and I won’t communicate with anyone without your permission.’’
‘‘On your word of honor as an officer and a gentleman?’’
‘‘On my word of honor as an officer and a gentleman,’’ Clete parroted.
I wonder if I mean that? What is the really honorable thing to do? Pass up an opportunity to try to keep one of my men alive? Or live up to Martín’s adult version of Boy Scout’s Honor?
‘‘Suboficial Mayor Rodríguez,’’ Martín said, turning to Enrico, ‘‘are you armed?’’
Enrico looked at Clete for guidance.
‘‘Tell him, Enrico.’’
"Sí, mi coronel,’’ Enrico said, patting the small of his back to indicate that he had a pistol concealed there.
Martín picked his briefcase up from where he had set it on the floor, opened it, and produced a .45 automatic.
‘‘I really hope you won’t have occasion to need this,’’ he said, handing it to Clete.
Then he nodded at Lauffer and left the room.
[FIVE] The Embassy of the United States of America Montevideo, Uruguay 2205 18 April 1943
‘‘I will take you there, Señor, of course,’’ the taxi driver at the bus terminal said to the somewhat rumpled-looking middle-aged man, ‘‘but it is a long way, an expensive trip, and the norteamericano Embassy is not open at this hour.’’
‘‘You are very kind, Señor,’’ Colonel A. F. Graham, USMCR—and have just earned yourself a very nice tip— ‘‘but please take me there anyway. Someone is waiting for me.’’
That’s the absolute opposite of the truth. If I can find Stevenson, he will be the most surprised sonofabitch in Uruguay.
The Embassy of the United States was in a stone villa, inside a tall stone-and-steel-spear fence. A brass sign was on the fence gate pillar, and a painted wooden sign announced the hours the Embassy was open for business. The gate was firmly closed with a heavy chain and a large padlock.
There was also an intercom device with a button.
Graham pushed the button. Thirty seconds later, a voice barely comprehensible through static—but obviously American—announced ‘‘Cerrado’’—Closed.
Deciding that communication over that device would be impossible, Graham put his finger back on the button and held it there.
There were several more ‘‘closed’’ announcements over the next two minutes, and then there was a flash of light as the door of the Embassy villa opened and an indignant young man in Marine khakis appeared and shouted, ‘‘Cerrado! Cerrado!’’
Graham kept his finger on the button until the Marine—a corporal—came down to the gate.
‘‘Cerrado, Señor,’’ he said with finality.
‘‘Good evening, Corporal. My name is Graham. I would like to see Mr. Ralph Stevenson, who is the Cultural Attach é.’’
The Corporal was visibly surprised that the middle-aged man wearing rumpled clothes and badly needing a shave spoke English so well.
‘‘Sorry. We’re closed. You’ll have to come back in the morning.’’
‘‘I would like to see either Mr. Stevenson, please, or the duty officer.’’
‘‘You American?’’
‘‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.’’
‘‘Is this some sort of bona fide emergency?’’
‘‘Yes, I would say so, Corporal.’’
‘‘What kind of an emergency?’’
‘‘Corporal, listen to me carefully. I may not look like one, but I happen to be a colonel of the United States Marine Corps.’’
It was clear that the corporal thought this highly unlikely.
‘‘Is that so? You got anything to prove it, Colonel?’’
Colonel Graham had with him his Marine Corps identi fication card, his JCS Letter Orders, and another plastic enclosed card identifying him as the Deputy Director for Western Hemisphere Operations of the Office of Strategic Services. But before leaving Pôrto Alegre, he had placed all of these documents into the false bottom of one of his suitcases.
But, he realized, he was not without the means to convince the corporal that he was a fellow Marine.
‘‘Listen to me, son,’’ he said. ‘‘Unless I am inside the Embassy talking to the Duty Officer within the next thirty seconds, you’re going to be a buck private on your way to permanent duty cleaning mess-hall grease pits on Parris Island so fast it will take a week for your ass to catch up with you. Now open this goddamned gate!’’
‘‘Aye, aye, Sir,’’ the corporal said as he reached for the key to the padlock.
As they reached the open door to the Embassy building, the corporal volunteered the information that Mr. Stevenson was in the building but had left orders that he was not to be disturbed by anybody but the Ambassador.
‘‘That was before I got here, son,’’ Graham said. ‘‘Tell him I’m here.’’
‘‘Aye, aye, Sir,’’ the corporal said. ‘‘I’ll take you to his office.’’
‘‘Thank you.’’
The office of the Cultural Attaché was in the basement of the villa.
The corporal knocked on the door.
It was opened by a nice-looking young man in his thirties whose face bore a look of resigned tolerance.
‘‘Corporal, I said I didn’t want to be bothered,’’ he said, and then saw Graham. ‘‘Jesus Christ! Colonel Graham!’’
‘‘Hello, Stevenson,’’ Graham said.
‘‘You know the Colonel, Sir?’’ the corporal asked.
‘‘Yes, I do,’’ Stevenson said.
‘‘Yes, Sir. Then I’ll just log him in.’’
‘‘No, Corporal, don’t do that,’’ Graham said. ‘‘Actually, since you didn’t see me, there’s no reason to log me in.’’
The corporal looked at Stevenson.
‘‘You didn’t see Colonel Graham, Corporal,’’ Stevenson said. ‘‘I’ll explain this to the Security Officer.’’
‘‘Yes, Sir.’’
‘‘Come in, Colonel,’’ Stevenson said.
There was a man sitting on a battered leather couch in Stevenson’s small office.
‘‘Don’t tell me this is the legendary Colonel A. F. Graham in the flesh,’’ the man said.
‘‘Who are you?’’
‘‘My name is Leibermann, and before you jump all over Stevenson’s ass for talking to me, I came to see him.’’
‘‘Is that so? Why?’’
‘‘Has my fame preceded me?’’ Leibermann asked. ‘‘Can I infer from the utter lack of surprise on your face that you know who I am?’’
‘‘I know who you are, Mr. Leibermann. What I’m curious about is what you’re doing here.’’
‘‘Tex Frade asked me to see what I could do to keep your man Ettinger alive. I’m sorry to tell you I failed.’’
‘‘What are you saying? Ettinger’s dead?’’
‘‘Dead, and they mutilated the corpse to send a message. ’’
‘‘What kind of a message? To whom?’’
‘‘That’s what Stevenson and I were talking about,’’ Leibermann said. ‘‘But since Stevenson won’t tell me what Ettinger was doing over here, we aren’t d
oing very well with our little game of Twenty Questions.’’
‘‘I told you, Milton, I don’t know what Ettinger was doing there,’’ Stevenson protested. ‘‘I never heard his name before you walked in here tonight!’’
You call him by his first name, do you, Stevenson? That means that (a) you are probably seeing more of him than Wild Bill Donovan would like you to, (b) that you like him, and (c) Leibermann likes you, or else he wouldn’t have made a point of telling me he came to see you to keep him out of trouble with me.
‘‘What does this mean, Colonel?’’ Leibermann asked sarcastically. ‘‘That the OSS not only doesn’t talk to FBI, they don’t talk to each other, either?’’
‘‘I think the word is ‘compartmentalization,’ ’’ Graham said. ‘‘Nobody knows anything more than they have to.’’
‘‘Of course, all I am is a simple accountant, not a secret agent, like you two, so I may be missing the big picture on this, but my word for that is ‘stupid.’ ’’
‘‘When did this happen?’’ Graham asked.
‘‘According the local cops, he’d been dead about thirty hours when they found him.’’
‘‘Where did they find him?’’
‘‘There’s a sort of a seaside resort here called Carrasco. They found him in the sand dunes about a mile north of the hotel—actually it’s a gambling casino and hotel— where he was staying. His car is in the casino garage. No signs of a struggle in his room.’’
‘‘How did they kill him? How was he mutilated?’’
‘‘Ice pick in the ear,’’ Leibermann said. ‘‘And, postmortem, they severed his penis and placed it in his mouth. That’s what we were talking about when you showed up.’’
‘‘Why would they do that?’’ Graham asked.
‘‘Are we talking to each other to the point where we agree that probable bad guys are the Germans?’’ Leibermann asked.
‘‘OK, why would the Germans do that?’’
‘‘I don’t think the Germans would,’’ Leibermann said. ‘‘They might do something imaginative, like hang a gasoline- filled tire around him and set it on fire, but I don’t think they’d cut off a Yiddisher’s schwantz and stick it in his mouth. They’d have to touch it.’’
He mimed lifting the penile member erect and then sawing on it with a knife.
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