‘‘It would be unprofessional, right? Conduct unbecoming an intelligence officer? Well let me tell you, mi Coronel, if I ever get a bead on that Kraut sonofabitch—and I’m damned sure going to try—I’ll drop him in his tracks!’’
‘‘A ‘bead,’ Señor Clete?’’ Enrico asked.
‘‘A ‘bead’?’’ Martín parroted.
Clete, looking at the confusion on their faces, smiled.
‘‘I guess that doesn’t translate into Spanish very well, does it?’’ he said. ‘‘In English—or American, I suppose— when you line your rifle sights up on a deer, you say you’re ‘taking a bead.’ I guess it comes from the little brass balls the old Winchesters used to use for front sights; they looked like beads.’’
‘‘You shot many deer in the United States, did you?’’ Martín asked.
‘‘Asked the professional intelligence officer, cleverly tactfully trying to change the subject,’’ Clete said, smiling at him. ‘‘Don’t worry, Martín. When I drop that sonofabitch, I will make a real effort to do it so you won’t get involved.’’
Martín smiled at him.
In Frade’s shoes, I would certainly feel exactly the same way.
‘‘I ask you, my friend, not to act in haste or anger,’’ Martín said.
‘‘Is there any longer any reason I have to stay here?’’ Clete said, then smiled and added, ‘‘Asked the amateur intelligence officer, tactfully trying to change the subject.’’
‘‘The original reason I asked Capitán Delgano to . . . make sure you were available . . . was of course the possibility that the Lockheed would be needed.’’
‘‘That, I understood. But why until now?’’
‘‘El Presidente considered for a while offering your aircraft to former Presidente Castillo and members of the former government. It would take them out of the country.’’
‘‘Oddly enough, I thought that might be it,’’ Clete said. ‘‘I had a lot of time to think, you understand.’’
Martín looked at Clete, smiled, and shook his head.
‘‘In any event, former Presidente Castillo, and some others, have been placed aboard a boat in El Tigre which will take them to Uruguay. You are free to leave. With the gratitude of the government, and my personal gratitude.’’
He offered Clete his hand.
‘‘Where will you go?’’ Martín asked.
‘‘I don’t know,’’ Clete said. ‘‘What I’m wondering is how I will get anywhere. I flew in here.’’
‘‘The least we can do for you is provide you with a car and driver,’’ Martín said.
‘‘How about a ride into Buenos Aires?’’ Clete asked. ‘‘I’ve got cars there. I want to make a telephone call. . . .’’
‘‘I took the liberty of telephoning Señorita Mallín—actually I spoke with her father—and told him that, although you were unavoidably detained, you were not in any danger. ’’
‘‘Jesus H. Christ!’’ Clete said, and then added, thinking out loud: ‘‘That was damned nice of you.’’
‘‘It was nothing,’’ Martín said.
He looked around the room, found the major who had been Clete’s oh-so-courteous guard, and waved him over.
‘‘Mayor, I want you to find a car and a driver, and then escort Señor Frade anywhere he wishes to go in Buenos Aires.’’
"Sí, mi Coronel.’’
‘‘Thank you,’’ Clete said. ‘‘I am free to take the airplane? ’’
‘‘Of course, but you said you . . .’’
‘‘Tomorrow,’’ Clete said, thinking aloud. ‘‘I’ll have somebody drive me out here. Or, if I decide to go to the estancia, I’ll fly a Cub here, pick up the Lockheed, and worry about getting the Cub back later.’’
‘‘I will order Capitán Delgano to make himself available to you at your convenience.’’
‘‘Thank you very much, mi Coronel, but I won’t need Capitán Delgano.’’
‘‘I would feel so much more comfortable if he were with you.’’
‘‘Thank you for your concern, but no thank you.’’
Martín looked at him for a long moment before saying, ‘‘Whatever you wish, of course.’’
From the windows of the Army Mercedes on the way into Buenos Aires, Clete saw absolutely no signs whatever that the country had just undergone a revolution.
The flow of traffic was normal. The restaurants and cafés were open and apparently doing a good business. When they drove down Avenida del Libertador past the Navy School of Engineering, nothing suggested that a regiment of infantry had been held up there, or that there had been a skirmish in which people had died.
He realized he was going to have to do something about Ettinger. Starting with finding out what happened to him. The question was how to do that. Tony and the Chief would probably have no more information than when he’d flown the Lockheed out of the estancia. If he was killed in Uruguay, any information the police there passed on to norteamericanos would have been passed on to the Embassy in Montevideo, not the Embassy here.
There was probably an OSS station chief in Uruguay, but he had no idea who he was, and he doubted if Delojo did either, or if he did, that he would give that information to him without argument.
Leibermann probably had contacts in Montevideo, but how much they knew—if anything—about an American getting himself stabbed to death in Carrasco was a big question.
The one person who almost certainly had more information than anyone else was Coronel Martín, and he had already told him everything he knew, or at least wanted him to know.
The only way to find out what he had to know was to go to Montevideo himself, and somehow find the OSS guy there and get him to find out what he could.
That was obviously impossible tonight. And tied in with that difficulty was the Lockheed. He wanted to fly the Lockheed out of Campo de Mayo and back to the estancia. Martín did not at all like it when he refused Capitán Delgano ’s services. And Clete didn’t at all like it that General Rawson had considered using the Lockheed to carry the deposed President out of the country. He might decide it would be useful for other purposes—a flight around the country, for example, to show himself off to the people. Clete needed the plane to deal with the Comerciante del Océano Pacífico, and that might be as soon as within the next couple of days. Or tomorrow.
And he wanted to see Dorotéa.
The priorities, therefore, were to see Dorotéa and get the Lockheed out of Campo de Mayo. And since he could not move the Lockheed tonight, that meant he could see Dorot éa tonight.
He could of course visit her at her house, where he could see Dorotéa, and her mother, and Señor Mallin, and even Little Henry. And they could talk about getting together with the Very Reverend Matthew Cashley-Price for premarital counseling.
With a little bit of luck I might even get Dorotéa alone for twenty seconds and put my arms around her.
Or, when the Mercedes drops us off at The Museum— No. Uncle Willy’s house would be better—I could telephone Dorotéa from there, tell her I can’t leave there, I expect an important telephone call or something, and suggest that she come to Uncle Willy’s house . . . alone.
Dorotéa is a very intelligent girl. If she agrees to come, she’ll understand what I have in mind. After all, as they say, there is no point in closing the barn door after the cow’s gotten out, is there?
He turned to the major sitting beside him.
‘‘Mayor,’’ he announced, ‘‘now that I think about it, I would rather go to my house on Libertador. The address is 4730. It’s right across from the racetrack.’’
‘‘Whatever you wish, Señor Frade.’’
‘‘Why are we going to the Libertador house, Señor Clete?’’ Enrico asked, turning from the front seat.
‘‘I have my reasons,’’ Clete said.
Enrico looked confused for a moment, and then understanding dawned.
He nodded with comprehension and approval.
‘‘You can fi
nd something to do to occupy your time, can’t you, Enrico?’’
‘‘Yes, of course, Señor Clete.’’
Señora Lopez, the housekeeper, opened the door.
She is not only surprised to see me, but she doesn’t seem to be too happy about it, either.
‘‘You will be spending the night, Señor Frade?’’
‘‘I think so, yes,’’ Clete said.
She’s uncomfortable with that reply, too. What the hell’s going on? Oh, hell, she probably was going to take the night off, go to a movie or something, and I’m screwing that up for her.
‘‘I will need nothing tonight,’’ Clete said. ‘‘I’m going to bed early’’—I devoutly hope—‘‘and there’s no point in you staying around, if you’ve made other plans.’’
"Sí, Señor,’’ Señora Lopez said.
Oh, to hell with her.
‘‘Let’s see what cars are here, Enrico,’’ Clete said. ‘‘You may have to go over to Avenida Coronel Díaz and get one.’’
Enrico nodded.
Three cars were in the basement garage: Señora Lopez used the 1939 Ford station wagon to run the house, and in it, it was to be hoped, she would drive to the movies before Dorotéa arrived. Next to it there was the old, immaculately maintained Rolls-Royce. And next to that was the bullet-shattered Horche in which his father had been murdered.
‘‘Does that thing work?’’ Clete asked, pointing at the Rolls. ‘‘Specifically, will it make it out to Campo de Mayo in the morning?’’
‘‘Of course,’’ Enrico said as if he considered the question very strange.
‘‘OK. Then we’ll use that.’’
Enrico nodded.
Clete walked to the Horche and ran his fingers over the bullet-shattered windshield and the bullet holes in the fenders and doors.
‘‘I want to have this repaired, Enrico. Made like new. Is that going to be a problem?’’
‘‘No. It can be done.’’
There was the sound of an automobile horn, close, a signal.
Enrico walked to the garage door, slipping his .45 automatic from the small of his back and holding it parallel to his leg as he did so. He pushed a button, and the garage door rose.
An Argentine Army staff car with a sergeant at the wheel rolled into the basement.
Jesus Christ, Perón! I forgot that sonofabitch is staying here!
Are you calling him a sonofabitch because he just ruined your carnal plans for the evening?
He was your father’s best friend. Be gracious to the sonofabitch!
Clete walked to the car and opened the rear door.
El Coronel Juan Domingo Perón was not alone in the backseat of the car. A girl, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, no older than that, was sitting beside him. A shy girl, who glanced at Clete, then blushed and looked away.
‘‘Buenos tardes, mi Coronel,’’ Clete said with a smile.
Perón looked a little embarrassed himself.
Probably because you showed your ass to me this morning at the Officers’ Casino. You should be embarrassed, you bastard. That wasn’t called for.
‘‘I fear, Señor Frade,’’ Perón said, ‘‘that I am still imposing on your hospitality.’’
‘‘Not at all, mi Coronel. My house is your house for as long as you wish.’’
‘‘You are very kind, but I am—’’
‘‘Suboficial Mayor Rodríguez and I were just about to leave,’’ Clete said. ‘‘We just came here to pick up the Rolls-Royce.’’
Perón nodded.
‘‘I hope to see you soon, mi Coronel,’’ Clete said, smiled, and walked to the Rolls-Royce.
‘‘You better drive, Enrico,’’ Clete said. ‘‘I think this thing was made before I was.’’
He climbed into the front passenger seat and waited for Enrico to get behind the wheel.
Neither Perón nor the girl got out of the car before Enrico drove the Rolls out of the garage.
‘‘Who was the girl, Enrico? His daughter? I thought Per ón wasn’t married.’’
‘‘He is not, Señor Clete.’’
‘‘What is she, then, his niece?’’
‘‘Not his niece, Señor Clete. Where are we going, Señor Clete?’’
Interesting question. What do I do now? Go to The Museum and call Dorotéa from there? Why call her? She might have come to Uncle Willy’s house, but she won’t come to The Museum.
‘‘Oh, Christ. To hell with it. To the Mallíns’ house, please.’’
Enrico nodded, and at the next intersection turned left off Avenida del Libertador.
‘‘If that girl wasn’t Perón’s niece, who was she?’’ Clete asked.
Enrico did not answer.
He’s not answering that question. Why not? Because he would be embarrassed by the answer? Or because the answer would embarrass Perón? That’s what it has to be.
Jesus, is what I am now starting to suspect possible? Obviously, truth being stranger than fiction, it is.
‘‘My God, Enrico, that girl was only fourteen, fifteen years old.’’
After a significant pause, Enrico said, ‘‘Your father, Se ñor Clete, used to say that to have true friends, you must accept in each one a character flaw of some kind.’’
‘‘I’ll be goddamned,’’ Clete said, chuckling. ‘‘El Coronel Juan Domingo Perón is a dirty old man!’’
Enrico was not amused. Clete wondered why he himself —he was still smiling—had thought it, literally, laughable.
‘‘Enrico, you don’t think there’s something strange about somebody his age fooling around with young girls?’’
‘‘It is not for me to judge, Señor Clete.’’
‘‘Has he been doing this long?’’ Clete asked, naughtily.
He got a look from Enrico that told him there would not be a reply.
[FOUR] 23 Calle Acros Belgrano, Buenos Aires 1930 19 April 1943
Enrico pulled the Rolls-Royce up and stopped before the door of the Italian-style mansion that occupied the eastern corner lot at the intersection of Calle Arcos and Virrey del Pino. He did not get out of the car, as he usually did, to open the door for Clete. He sat, both hands on the wheel of the Rolls, looking straight ahead out the window.
He’s pissed at me. Jesus, why? Because I think there is something funny—sick but funny—that the oh, so dignified Coronel Juan Domingo Perón has got a thing for little girls?
‘‘Norteamericanos are different, Enrico,’’ Clete said. ‘‘We think there is something funny—’’
‘‘It is not funny, Señor Clete,’’ Enrico said, dead serious, and still not looking at him. ‘‘God made him that way.’’
‘‘Did God make you that way, too?’’ Clete asked gently, thinking he had a sudden insight.
‘‘You have to ask me a question like that?’’ Enrico demanded indignantly.
‘‘Well, what the hell was I supposed to think?’’
‘‘El Coronel Perón was your father’s best friend. Your father never laughed at—’’
‘‘Well, get this straight, Enrico. El Coronel Perón is not my best friend, and I think he ought be ashamed of himself! ’’
He had to smile when he heard what he had said.
‘‘I am sure he is,’’ Enrico said, seriously, rationalizing: ‘‘I would be. But he was el Coronel’s best friend, and you should not mock him.’’
‘‘OK. I’m sorry.’’
‘‘No, you are not, Señor Clete.’’
‘‘No, I am not,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Screw you, Enrico.’’
He got out of the car and walked to the double doors of the Mallín mansion. Failing to find a doorbell, he raised the clapper and let it fall.
It sounds like somebody knocked over a garbage can.
A maid answered the door, but Dorotéa came running past her.
‘‘Hey, Princess!’’
‘‘Cletus, damn you, I’ve been frantic!’’
‘‘I’m sorry.’’
‘‘Where have
you been?’’ she demanded, then she saw the Rolls. ‘‘Where did you get that?’’
‘‘It’s mine. It was the only thing available.’’ He had a sudden thought. ‘‘Would you like to go for a ride? Before your parents learn I’m here and we get all involved with the wedding?’’
‘‘They’re not here,’’ she said. ‘‘Why should we go for a ride?’’
‘‘Because we have to talk,’’ he said. ‘‘Where are your parents?’’
‘‘They went to dinner. I refused to go.’’
"Why?"
‘‘Because I didn’t want to miss your call, if you called. I’ve been out of my mind, not knowing where you were, not that you give a damn.’’
‘‘I’m sorry, Princess.’’
‘‘A Colonel Martín called Daddy and told him that you were all right. All that did was convince Daddy that you were up to your ears in this damned revolution. Were you?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘I don’t think you should see Daddy tonight,’’ she said. ‘‘He’s furious with you.’’
‘‘Why?’’
‘‘At the moment, because he thinks you went off and got yourself killed just so our baby won’t have a name and he’ll be embarrassed. When he finds out you’re still alive, he’ll think of something else. What do we have to talk about?’’
‘‘Excuse me?’’
‘‘You just said we have to talk.’’
‘‘Well, I was thinking about Father Whatsisname . . .’’
‘‘Father Matthew, you mean?’’ Clete nodded. ‘‘What about him?’’
‘‘Well, I know how important—’’
‘‘Don’t lie to me, Cletus.’’
He looked at her helplessly, then blurted the truth: ‘‘Honey, I just want to be alone with you.’’
She threw herself into his arms, put her mouth to his ear, and whispered, ‘‘Me too.’’
He thought his heart was going to jump out of his chest.
‘‘Can we go to your place on Libertador?’’ she asked, her mouth still at his ear.
‘‘No.’’
‘‘I don’t want to go to the other house,’’ she said, now pulling her face back so that she could look at him. ‘‘Why can’t we go to Libertador?’’
Blood and Honor Page 67
