The Marine in Clete was forced to recognize that—with the exception of the leather-brimmed, gold-braid-decorated cap, with its ridiculous huge, high crown—he looked like a soldier, a senior officer.
Perón saluted, crisply touching the brim of the outsized hat. “Buenos días,” he said. “Thank you for receiving me on such short notice.”
“My house is your house, mi Coronel,” Clete said, hoping he sounded far more sincere than he felt.
Perón went to Claudia and kissed her cheek. “Claudia, thank you for being here,” he said. He turned to Welner. “It is always a pleasure to see you, Padre.”
“And for me to see you, Juan Domingo,” Welner said.
Perón did not try to kiss Welner, although kisses of greeting between men were standard procedure.
You don’t kiss priests? Or aren’t they close enough for that?
Perón nodded at Enrico, who came to attention and said, “Mi Coronel.”
Then Perón walked to Clete and grasped him by both shoulders. “Cletus,” he said emotionally.
“Mi Coronel,” Clete said.
“We’re having coffee, Juan Domingo. Mine with brandy,” Claudia said. “Would you like either?”
“A coffee, please,” he said.
Claudia poured a cup and handed it to him.
He took it, sat it down, took off his cap, and then picked up the coffee again. “What I have to say to you must never leave this room,” he said solemnly. “Agreed?”
That depends on what you have to say, Colonel.
He looked at them one at a time.
“Sí, Señor,” Enrico said.
“Certainly, Juan Domingo,” Claudia said.
Welner nodded.
Perón looked at Clete, who nodded.
“First, let me say, Cletus that I owe you an apology.” He turned to Claudia and Welner. “When Cletus told me he held the Germans responsible for the murder of our beloved Jorge—may he now be resting in peace for all eternity united again with his beloved Elizabeth-Ann…”
And where’s that going to leave Claudia, you pious fraud? She loved my father too, and spent a hell of a lot more time with him, taking care of him, than my mother did.
What is Claudia supposed to do, for all eternity, ride around on a cloud by herself, strumming on a harp?
“…I found the suggestion so monstrous that I was unable to believe it, and told him so…”
Who else could have done it, had any reason to do it, you stupid bastard?
“…which caused bad feelings between us, which, as his godfather, caused me much pain.”
Not as much pain as a load of double-ought buckshot in my father’s face caused. What the fuck are you up to?”
Perón turned back to Clete. “I now tell you, Cletus, that I was wrong, and can only hope you can find it in your heart to forgive your godfather, who looks upon you as the son God never saw fit to give him.”
Maybe you can knock up one of your little girls and have one of your own.
“I’m not sure what you’re saying, mi Coronel,” Clete said.
“A distinguished German officer recently arrived from Berlin, Cletus,” Perón began, then turned and looked at Claudia and Father Welner. “This is, of course, what must go no further than this room.” He turned back to Cletus. “This distinguished German officer, like yourself, Cletus, an honorable officer, the son and grandson of general officers—”
Clete was horrified to hear himself ask, not very politely, “Has this distinguished German officer got a name?”
Watch it, stupid! Keep your goddamned mouth shut! Hear the bastard out!
Perón obviously didn’t like the question. “Given your word of honor as an officer and a gentleman that it will go no further than this room?”
“You have my word,” Clete said. Why am I uncomfortable giving him my word when I don’t mean it? “But if giving me the name is awkward for you, don’t—”
“Generalmajor Freiherr Manfred von Deitzberg,” Perón said. “Of the General Staff of the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht. You have a right to know. Do you know what this is, the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht?”
“Yes, Sir.”
And I also know, mi Coronel, that von Deitzberg is no more a Wehrmacht officer than I am. The sonofabitch is not only SS, he’s Heinrich Himmler’s adjutant.
“General von Deitzberg was sent to Argentina to offer the assurances of the Wehrmacht that the German officer corps had absolutely nothing to do with murder of our beloved Jorge.”
“If the Germans didn’t kill him, Juan Domingo,” Father Welner asked in an innocence Clete suspected was as phony as a three-dollar bill, “who did? I don’t understand.”
“There was an officer—a man at least wearing the uniform of a German officer; actually he was in the SS. Do you know what the SS is, Father?”
Welner shook his head.
“It is the German secret police.”
“I see,” Welner said. “And?”
“Acting without any authority at all, he ordered Jorge’s assassination.”
“Do you think this man also ordered the attempt on my life?” Clete asked, and was immediately sorry.
There goes your goddamned runaway mouth again!
Perón considered the question. “I don’t know, but it certainly seems likely, doesn’t it?”
Jesus! Either he’s the greatest actor since John Barrymore, or he actually believes this bullshit!
“And where is this officer now?” Welner asked.
“I hope he is burning in hell,” Enrico said. “I shot him, and Rudolpho shot the other SS bastard.”
“Oh, my God!” Claudia exclaimed.
“None of us heard that,” Perón announced. “And you, Suboficial Mayor Rodriguez, will never say that again to anyone. You understand that is an order?”
“Sí, mi Coronel.”
“And you will go to Sargento Gomez, Suboficial Mayor, as soon as you can, and tell him that is my order to him as well. You understand?”
“Sí, mi Coronel.”
“We must now do what I know our Jorge would have wanted us to do,” Perón announced. “We must put aside our personal feelings and think of the good of our beloved homeland. What has happened has happened, and nothing will bring our Jorge back to us.”
“I don’t think I know what you mean, mi Coronel,” Clete said.
“Discreetly, of course, under the circumstances, I am carrying to the Argentine officer corps the profound apologies of the German officer corps, as well as their assurance that nothing of this sort will ever happen again.”
At least until somebody else gets in their way.
“It is their hope, and mine, that this unfortunate business can be put behind us.”
Maybe you and the Argentine officer corps are going to kiss and make up with the Germans, but if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll pass. Grüner didn’t order my father’s murder. The order came from Germany, and I wouldn’t be a damned bit surprised if it came personally from your honorable officer pal, von Deitzberg.
Perón looked at Clete. “Can you find it in your heart to forgive your godfather, Cletus?”
“Of course, mi Coronel” Clete said after a moment.
“Can you find it in your heart to think of me, rather than as el Coronel, as Tío Juan?”
Oh, shit!
“That is very kind, Tío Juan,” Clete said.
“I am your father in God, and while I never could take your father’s place, with God’s help I can be a good uncle to you.”
“Thank you very much.”
“And now I must return to my duties,” Perón announced. “And I feel duty-bound to repeat that what has just been said in this room must go no further.”
; “We understand, Juan Domingo,” Father Welner said. “Thank you for telling us what you have.”
Perón and Welner shook hands.
Perón put on his uniform cap, then kissed Claudia.
“You have my orders, Suboficial Mayor.”
“Sí, mi Coronel.”
He turned to Clete and grasped his shoulders. “Be strong, my son,” he said, and kissed him on the cheek.
The feel of Perón’s beard against his made him uncomfortable. “I will try, Tío Juan,” Clete said.
Perón saluted him, did an about-face, and marched out of the room.
Clete watched him, and as soon as he had left the room, picked up the cognac bottle. “Jesus!” he said, and poured an inch and a half into the snifter.
“I would love to know what you’re thinking,” Welner said.
“The one thing I never expected from that sonofabitch was stupidity. He actually believes that line of horseshit he just laid on us.”
“Clete!” Claudia protested.
“If el Coronel had not had his geography examination taken for him, he never would have been promoted teniente coronel,” Enrico said.
“Really?” Welner asked, amused.
“I am glad I told him I killed his Germans,” Enrico said.
“I’m not sure that was smart,” Clete said.
“I’ll tell you something else I think he believes,” Welner said. “I think he does look on you as ‘the son God never saw fit to give him.’”
“Jesus!” Clete said.
“What would really not be smart,” Welner said, “would be to underestimate your tío Juan, much less get on the wrong side of him.”
Jesus, judging from that sarcastic tone, Welner doesn’t like him any more than I do.
“Meaning what?” Clete challenged.
“Meaning—also not to go any further than these walls—a reliable story is going around—encouraged by Tío Juan—that General Ramírez is going to try to take General Rawson’s place as president.”
“Really?” Clete asked, surprised.
“And who knows what your Tío Juan wants after that for himself?” Welner said. “Tío Juan may be very valuable to you, Cletus.”
“I can’t believe that,” Claudia said.
“That he would be valuable?” Welner asked.
“You’re not suggesting he wants to be president?” Claudia asked.
“Of course he would like to be president,” Welner said. “He saw himself as vice president under Jorge. That’s why he came home from Europe. Now Jorge is gone.”
“I’ll be damned,” Clete said, and took a thoughtful sip of the cognac.
[THREE]
El Capilla Nuestra Señora de los Milagros
Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo
Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province
1134 8 May 1943
“You may kiss your bride, Cletus,” the Very Reverend Matthew Cashley-Price said softly in English, earning him a dirty look from the Right Reverend Manuel de Parto, bishop of the Diocese of Pila, who didn’t speak English, and who was already more than a little annoyed that he had been ordered to allow the Anglican clergyman to participate in the wedding.
“Huh?” the groom asked, startled, and then added, “Right. Sorry.”
He was in dress blues, complete to medals—not just the ribbons—and Marine officer’s sword.
He had been looking at the bride, who was wearing a bridal gown that had been her grandmother’s and, for the last minute or so, a wedding ring. It had just struck the groom, like a baseball bat in the back of the head, that he was now a married man, that the incredibly beautiful woman looking up at him had just sworn, until death did them part, to share his life, and as undeniable proof of that was carrying their baby under all that lace and silk.
With great tenderness—as though if he did it wrong, she would break, like an eggshell—he pushed her veil up over her head and bent and kissed her.
A murmur of approval came from the spectators in the chapel.
“Now we take communion,” Dorotéa whispered. “Kneel down.”
“Right,” he said, looking down at two prie-dieux placed in front of them. He somewhat awkwardly got on his knees, knocking his uniform cap off his prie-dieu as he did so.
As they hurried to put the cap back where it belonged, First Lieutenant Anthony J. Pelosi, Corps of Engineers, Army of the United States, who was in his Class A uniform, complete to medals, glistening Corcoran jump boots, and the thick golden rope that identified him as a military attaché, bumped into Suboficial Mayor Enrico Rodríguez, Retired, who was in the incredibly ornate dress uniform of the Húsares de Pueyrredón—the design of which had obviously been strongly influenced by the uniforms of King and Emperor Franz Josef’s Hungarian cavalry. Suboficial Mayor Rodríguez won the race and put the cap where it belonged with a gesture of triumph.
“Now get up,” Mrs. Cletus H. Frade ordered when they had received the wafer representing the body of Christ. “And don’t forget your hat.”
The groom rose to his feet, tucked his uniform cap under his arm, performed an about-face, and, when his bride had taken his arm, marched with her down the aisle of the chapel.
On the groom’s side of the church, sitting in one of the rows of upholstered chairs, Mrs. Martha Howell was blowing her nose. Mr. Cletus Marcus Howell nodded his head, apparently in approval. Sitting beside him was Señora Claudia Carzino-Cormano, who was also wiping her nose. Beside her was Señora Beatrice Frade de Duarte, who was wearing a dazzling smile and waving at the bridal couple, while her husband dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief.
In the first wooden pew on the groom’s side of the aisle were the Misses Howell, who each gave a thumbs-up to the newlyweds; Señorita Isabela Carzino-Cormano (her sister Alicia had been the bride’s only attendant, and, with her arm in Lieutenant Pelosi’s, was now following the couple down the aisle); Coronel Juan Domingo Perón, who was wearing his dress uniform; and Señorita Maria-Teresa Alberghoni, who had been introduced as Lieutenant Pelosi’s fiancée, and whom Coronel Perón obviously found charming.
The second pew held General Arturo Rawson, President of the Republic of Argentina; Señora Rawson; Capitán Roberto Lauffer, General Rawson’s aide-de-camp; and Coronel Bernardo Martín. Capitán Lauffer and Coronel Martín were in uniform; General Rawson wore a business suit.
In the third pew were Colonel A. F. Graham, USMC, and Captain Maxwell Ashton III, AUS, both in uniform and wearing the silver aiguillettes of military attachés; Sargento Rudolpho Gomez, Argentine Cavalry, Retired, who had sold his uniforms on retirement and was in a blue serge suit that looked to be two sizes too small; and Mr. Milton Leibermann, Legal Attaché of the American Embassy. The four pews behind held members of the upper hierarchy of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo and their wives.
On the bride’s side, the row of upholstered chairs held Señora Pamela Mallín, who was wiping her eyes; her husband Enrico; his mother; and Little Enrico Mallín. Señor Mallín, the father of the bride, looked very unhappy, and had looked unhappy since he had entered the church and noticed Señorita Alberghoni sitting across the aisle with el Coronel Juan Domingo Perón.
The pews behind them held Mrs. Cashley-Price, various members of the Mallín family, and more members of the senior staff of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo and their wives.
Immediately outside the chapel, the newlyweds passed between and under the raised sabers of eight officers of the Húsares de Pueyrredón in full dress uniform. This was el Coronel Perón’s surprise contribution to the wedding. The Special Assistant to the Minister of Defense had called the regiment’s colonel commanding and suggested this might be an appropriate honor to render to the son of the former colonel commanding, who happened to be a distinguished soldier himself.
The path from the chapel to th
e main house was lined by the workers of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. The men removed their hats and bobbed their heads as the couple passed by, and the women curtseyed. Some of both sexes crossed themselves. Halfway to the house, when he caught the groom’s eye, one of the gauchos popped to attention, saluted crisply, mouthed the words “Beautiful bride, skipper, good luck!” and then resumed the arrogant posture of a gaucho.
The staff of the main house was lined up on the steps and on the veranda.
The bride and groom entered the house and passed down the corridor to the master suite.
The groom closed and locked the door, turned to his bride, and tried to kiss her.
“Wait a moment,” she said, startling him.
Then she startled him even more by reaching behind her, unbuttoning something, shrugging out of the top of the dress, and then stepping out of the skirt and its petticoats. She then stood before him wearing nothing but a very fragile brassiere and matching pants.
“Now,” she said. “God, that dress is uncomfortable!”
The groom kissed the bride.
When the kiss became passionate, she freed herself from his arms.
“Take that off,” she ordered. “The medals and the buttons hurt.”
“Sorry,” he said, and complied with the order.
“You may now kiss your bride, Cletus,” Dorotéa said, mimicking the Reverend Cashley-Price. “Where in the world were you when he said that?”
“I had just realized we were married,” he said.
“That hit me outside the church,” she said. “I thought, ‘My God, I now live here. This is where I’m going to raise my baby.’”
“I love you, Dorotéa,” Clete said.
“I saw that in your eyes while the Bishop was going through that Latin rigmarole,” she said.
“I said you could kiss me,” she repeated.
He hesitated.
“Is something wrong?” Dorotéa asked.
“Sweetheart, by now the house is getting full of people. They’ll expect us to come out. If I start now, I may not be able to stop.”
“To hell with them,” she said. “They can wait. The whole world can wait. I want my husband to make love to me. Now.”
Secret Honor Page 36
