‘‘Isn’t that sort of thing, the penis in the mouth, associated with gangs in the United States?’’ Graham asked.
‘‘The true indication of somebody else’s intelligence is how much he agrees with you,’’ Leibermann said. ‘‘My own theory of what happened is that the local branch of Murder Incorporated was hired by parties unknown but who probably have offices in the German Embassy. The reason for the contract was that Ettinger knew too much and talked. The local cops tell me that’s what happens down here, too, to people who talk too much.’’
‘‘You say Frade asked for your help?’’ Graham asked.
Leibermann nodded.
‘‘When was that?’’
‘‘A little after noon today.’’
‘‘Do you know where he is now?’’
‘‘Hey, I’m the FBI. I’m supposed to ask the questions. You guys are supposed to blow things up.’’
‘‘Very funny, Milton,’’ Graham said. ‘‘You don’t mind if I call you Milton, do you?’’
‘‘Not if I can call you Alejandro,’’ Leibermann said.
Christ. He even knows my first name.
‘‘I would be honored if you called me Alejandro, Milton, ’’ Graham said. ‘‘And very grateful if you would tell me where Frade is.’’
‘‘He told me he was invited to a party and couldn’t turn down the invitation. Clever fellow that I am, I think he was telling me the coup d’état has started.’’
‘‘Did he happen to mention anything about an airplane?’’
‘‘What did you do, get him one to replace the one he put on the bottom of Samborombón Bay?’’
Graham happened to glance at Stevenson. From his face, it was obvious that he was hearing a number of things for the first time.
‘‘If I answer that so subtly phrased question, will you answer a question for me?’’
‘‘That depends on how subtle your answer is,’’ Leibermann said, smiling at him.
‘‘Yes. We got him another airplane. He picked it up in Brazil, and had aboard another OSS team. It was supposed to be a small twin, but it turned out to be a Lockheed airliner, a Lodestar. Since that was the first time Frade has flown a Lodestar, so far as I know, I have been naturally wondering if he and the people with him made it all right.’’
‘‘That wasn’t evasive at all, Colonel,’’ Leibermann said. ‘‘So I will reply in kind. Frade landed at his estancia with the Lockheed. They unloaded five people—almost certainly your OSS team—and some crates, and then took off again. I don’t know where to.’’
‘‘How reliable is that information?’’ Graham asked.
‘‘The man I have on Frade’s estancia is pretty reliable.’’
‘‘A minute ago, Milton, when I asked about an airplane, you weren’t exactly truthful, were you?’’ Graham said.
‘‘I was obfuscatory,’’ Leibermann said. ‘‘The first time you asked me about an airplane was before I knew you had really stopped playing games. So I was obfuscatory.’’
‘‘Do the names ‘Galahad’ and ‘Cavalry’ mean anything to you, Milton?’’
‘‘These sources? Code names for sources?’’ Leibermann asked, as if he didn’t expect a reply. ‘‘You got them from Frade?’’ Now he waited for Graham to nod. ‘‘I haven’t a clue about who Galahad might be,’’ he went on. ‘‘But Cavalry might be Martín. You know who I mean, the BIS guy?’’>
Graham nodded again.
‘‘I’ll ask around, if it’s important to you,’’ Leibermann said. ‘‘Is it important?’’
‘‘Important enough for me to come down here,’’ Graham said. ‘‘Which is the next thing on my agenda. I need to get to Buenos Aires. How’s the best way?’’
‘‘The best way is to catch the eight-o’clock ferry in the morning. That’ll put you into Buenos Aires a little before two.’’
‘‘That’s not quick enough,’’ Graham said.
‘‘You’re out of luck,’’ Leibermann said. ‘‘There’s no other way tonight. You missed the boat, to coin a phrase.’’
‘‘What about driving?’’
‘‘There’s a ferry across the border into Entre Ríos Province, ’’ Stevenson said. ‘‘But it stops running at ten. I’m afraid Mr. Leibermann is right, Colonel. You’re stuck here for the night.’’
Graham shrugged.
‘‘Colonel, what about Ettinger’s body?’’ Stevenson asked.
‘‘What about it?’’
‘‘What do we do with it when the police release it?’’
God forgive me, that subject never entered my mind.
‘‘Ettinger was here as a private citizen. What happens when a private citizen dies down here?’’
‘‘I really don’t know,’’ Stevenson said. ‘‘I’ll have to ask one of the diplomats, the Consul General.’’
‘‘No. You go to the Ambassador. You tell them Ettinger died in the service of his country. I want him put in a casket with a flag on it, and I want him taken to Pôrto Alegre, Brazil, escorted by the Military Attaché and a couple of Marines from the Embassy Guard. They can fly him home from there. You tell the Ambassador I said that’s what going to happen, and all you want from him is to tell his people to do it.’’
‘‘Yes, Sir.’’
‘‘Do it now, tonight,’’ Graham said. ‘‘And send off a message to Oracle—right now—so somebody can let his mother know what happened.’’
‘‘Yes, Sir.’’
‘‘Where can I stay tonight?’’
‘‘There’s room in my apartment, Sir,’’ Stevenson said.
‘‘Where are you staying, Milton?’’
‘‘I’ve got a room in the Casino Hotel I told you about.’’
‘‘Could I get a room there?’’
‘‘Probably. But there’s two beds in my room, if there’s a problem.’’
‘‘That might be best of all,’’ Graham said. ‘‘Once I have a shower and a shave, and change into clean clothes, I think that you and I ought to have a long talk, Milton.’’
‘‘I was hoping that’s what you had in mind, Alejandro,’’ Leibermann said.
XXII
[ONE] Visiting Officers’ Quarters First Cavalry Regiment Campo de Mayo Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 0125 19 April 1943
The lights in the room went on. Clete, startled, sat up in the bed.
Capitán Roberto Lauffer was standing just inside the door, by the light switch. He was fully dressed, and wore a blue-and -white-striped band of cloth around his right arm. The door was open, and through it Clete could see two soldiers armed with Thompson submachine guns. They both looked maybe seventeen years old—and terrified. They also had the blue-and-white—the Argentine colors—armbands.
‘‘Sorry to wake you, Cletus,’’ Lauffer said politely. ‘‘But something has come up. The order to execute immediately has been given.’’
Nice choice of words, Roberto! It’s really great to have someone waking you up in the middle of the night saying things like ‘‘the order to execute immediately has been given.’’
The door to the other bedroom opened, and Enrico, in baggy cotton undershirt and drawers, came in. He had his right hand behind his back.
I don’t think Enrico’s scratching his ass; he’s got his .45 back there.
‘‘Buenos días, mi Capitán.’’
‘‘The order for immediate execution of OUTLINE BLUE has been issued, Suboficial Mayor,’’ Lauffer said formally.
‘‘I will get dressed, Señor,’’ Enrico said.
Clete swung his feet out of bed.
‘‘What are you talking about?’’ Clete asked. ‘‘What’s this ‘execute immediately’ order all about?’’
‘‘Castillo knows that Blue Sky was ordered—the command to execute OUTLINE BLUE,’’ Lauffer explained. ‘‘He sent messages to every command, stating that General Ram írez has resigned as Minister of War, that any orders Ram írez might issue are to be ignored, and that General Savaronna has
taken his place.’’
‘‘Who’s Savaronna?’’
‘‘He was Castillo’s Minister of Labor,’’ Lauffer furnished, and then went on: ‘‘We expected something like that might happen, Coronel Martín predicted it. The only thing that’s changed is that General Ramírez has ordered us to move now.’’
‘‘Instead of when?’’
‘‘Instead of tomorrow morning,’’ Lauffer said. ‘‘I thought you read OUTLINE BLUE.’’
‘‘Not that carefully.’’
‘‘And under the circumstances, General Rawson feels that we should make sure the airplane will be ready. Just in case it’s needed.’’
Clete had put on clean underwear, stockings, and a clean shirt. He stood looking at the closet where Enrico had hung up his clothing. He had his choice of a business suit or the riding breeches and boots he wore flying the Lockheed into Campo de Mayo.
‘‘I don’t think my diplomat’s uniform is the appropriate uniform of the day,’’ he thought aloud.
‘‘Excuse me?’’
‘‘Nothing,’’ Clete said, and reached for the riding breeches.
‘‘I don’t know whether you will feel comfortable with these,’’ Lauffer said when Clete had finished—with a loud grunt—pulling on his riding boots. ‘‘But General Ramírez said I should offer them to you.’’
Lauffer extended to him a blue-and-white armband, together with two safety pins and an envelope. Clete opened it. It contained a single sheet of paper:
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN
Campo de Mayo
19 April 1943
Señor Cletus Howell Frade is in the service of the Provisional Government of the Republic of Argentina, acting under the direct orders of the undersigned.
Ramírez
Teniente General Pedro P. Ramírez
Minister of War
Provisional Government of the Republic of
Argentina
Rawson
General de Division Arturo Rawson Presidente of the Governing Council Provisional Government of the Republic of Argentina
The point of his crack about being comfortable with these is that I turned down that temporary commission.
Clete took his tweed jacket from its hanger, laid it on the bed, and pinned the blue-and-white-striped armband to it. He put it on, then looked at Lauffer.
‘‘Rawson’s the new President, huh?’’
‘‘Until elections can be held,’’ Lauffer said.
Or until they stand us all in front of a wall wearing blindfolds and offer us a last cigarette, right? Whichever comes first?
Enrico came into the room, wearing what apparently was the prescribed uniform for field service. This included a leather harness ringed with well-polished leather clip holders for a rifle, a well-polished molded holster for his .45, and a cavalry saber in a scabbard.
‘‘You have one of these armbands for him?’’ Clete asked.
Lauffer handed Enrico an armband. When it became apparent that Enrico was going to have trouble pinning it on without taking his jacket off—and that meant also unstrapping his leather harness and belt—Clete took it from him and pinned it on for him.
‘‘I have a car outside,’’ Lauffer said.
‘‘Your pistol, Señor Cletus?’’ Enrico said.
‘‘Well, we can’t forget that, can we?’’ Clete said, and bent over and took the pistol from where he had stored it under the bed.
In a Marine Pavlovian reflex, he ejected the magazine, pulled the action back, saw that the chamber was empty, let the slide go forward, lowered the hammer, and replaced the magazine. Then he looked at the pistol.
What the hell am I supposed to do with this? Not only don’t I want to shoot anybody with it, but I don’t have a holster.
He remembered that Enrico often carried his pistol in the small of his back. He could not work the pistol under his waistband until he had loosened his belt.
There is a very good chance that this thing will slip down my ass, into my pants leg, and clatter noisily onto the ground. What I should do is just leave it here.
But I don’t really want to do that.
Lauffer was waving him through the door.
A 1940 Chevrolet, painted in the Argentine shade of olive drab, was parked by the curb outside the building. The driver held open the door and saluted as Clete, Lauffer, and Enrico squeezed into the backseat. That was not easy, and both Enrico and Lauffer had trouble arranging their sabers.
The two soldiers with Thompsons squeezed into the front seat beside the driver.
It must be even more crowded up there with those tommy guns.
Fifty-round drum magazines, too.
I wonder if either of those kids knows how to shoot a Thompson?
Here lies Major Cletus H. Frade, USMCR, who survived Guadalcanal but died in a South American revolution when he was shot by mistake by a nervous seventeen-year-old who didn’t know that unless you let go of the trigger, the Thompson will keep shooting.
The driver turned on the headlights and started off.
‘‘Turn off the lights!’’ Lauffer ordered sharply.
‘‘Why?’’ Clete asked as the lights faded.
‘‘We want to mobilize with as much secrecy as possible, ’’ Lauffer said seriously, and as if the question surprised him.
Don’t you think that Castillo has somebody out here with orders to report immediately when anything out of the ordinary happens?
The Chevrolet crawled to the end of the block and turned right onto a row of two-story barracks.
All the lights in the barracks were on, and soldiers were sleepily forming ranks in the street.
Clete, with effort, said nothing about lights in the barracks.
Five minutes later, they reached the airfield.
The guard detail there was under the command of a nervous infantry major who ordered everybody out of the car. He examined the interior with the aid of a flashlight, and did not seem at all happy with the document signed by the President of the Governing Council of the Provisional Government of the Republic of Argentina and his Minister of War vis-à-vis a Señor Cletus H. Frade.
Finally, however, he passed them through the barricade— fifty-five-gallon drums set in the middle of the street—into the airfield property.
The lights inside both hangers were on, and so were the floodlights mounted on the hangers to illuminate the parking ramp. Clete saw a half-dozen small airplanes, including two Piper Cubs and a Fieseler Storch—that’s probably the one Martín came to the estancia in. The others he thought were English, but he wasn’t sure.
There were also what looked like two platoons of infantrymen, in field gear, armed with Mauser rifles, standing at ease in ranks, with their officers, in riding breeches and high-crowned brimmed caps, standing in front of them, hands on their swords, smoking cigarettes and trying to look calm and nonchalant.
Not one of these guys, including Lauffer, has ever heard a shot fired in anger.
I don’t see any bigger airplanes. Are those half-dozen puddle jumpers all they keep out here?
‘‘I don’t see any larger airplanes than those Piper Cubs and the Storch,’’ Clete said, making it a question.
‘‘The bombers and transport aircraft are on maneuvers in Tucumán Province,’’ Lauffer said.
‘‘When did that happen?’’ Clete asked.
‘‘Four days ago,’’ Lauffer said. ‘‘Coronel Martín advised General Ramírez that the Air Service was not in sympathy with the G.O.U. General Ramírez then ordered them to Tucum án Province,’’ Lauffer said.
Well, that explains why it was so important to get the Lockheed here, doesn’t it? No Lockheed, no way out.
‘‘You think they will stay there?’’
‘‘We hope so. Orders were issued at midnight to detain their commanding officers until further orders.’’
The Chevrolet stopped by the side door of the closest hangar. Everybody got out of the car.
‘‘There are
supposed to be men here to push the airplane from the hangar,’’ Lauffer said. ‘‘But something may have gone wrong, and they may not have arrived. We may have to push it ourselves.’’
What’s wrong with those infantrymen? Why can’t they push the airplane out of the hangar?
Capitán Delgano, in civilian clothing and wearing a blue-and -white-striped armband, walked out of the hangar.
I wondered where you were.
He then had another thought.
‘‘Roberto,’’ he asked finally, and carefully. ‘‘Am I allowed to make a comment, a suggestion?’’
‘‘Of course,’’ Lauffer said.
‘‘Everybody seems a little nervous,’’ Clete said.
‘‘I think that’s to be expected, don’t you?’’ Lauffer replied a little stiffly.
‘‘I was thinking that everybody is already wondering what that Lockheed is doing here in the first place. What I mean is that somebody has probably already figured out it’s intended to fly Rawson and Ramírez and the others out of here if this thing goes wrong.’’
‘‘I’m sure that thought has occurred to some people,’’ Lauffer said.
‘‘Roberto, the moment we roll that airplane out of the hangar, and I start the engines, everybody’s going to think the revolution is over and our side lost.’’
‘‘Why would they think that?’’
‘‘That’s what I would think if I were them,’’ Delgano said, nodding at the infantrymen.
‘‘What do you suggest, Mayor Frade?’’ Lauffer asked formally.
‘‘Have you had the tanks topped off?’’ Clete asked.
Delgano nodded.
‘‘Then there’s no point in rolling it out of the hangar and making anybody nervous. If we need it, we can roll it out then.’’
‘‘General Rawson ordered me to make sure the aircraft is ready,’’ Lauffer said.
‘‘Tell him it’s ready, Delgano,’’ Clete said. ‘‘All we need to get it out of here is to open the hangar doors.’’ He thought of something else. ‘‘It would also be nice if I knew where we’re going. Or don’t you trust me with that information? ’’
‘‘You will be informed when—’’ Lauffer said.
Blood and Honor Page 62
