by Blood
"You tell me."
"By meeting Frade with that delegation of brass hats-which included Rawson, who is likely to become President if Ramirez doesn't-it looks to me that Ramirez went out of his way to send a message to the Germans that he (a) didn't like what happened to Colonel Frade, (b) he's not afraid of the Germans, and (c) neither are a great big bunch of the other brass."
"I wish we knew who 'Cavalry' is," Donovan said. "I don't like this."
"You believe this ransoming business?"
Donovan nodded.
"Neither Frade nor Ettinger are investigators," he said. "Ettinger is a radio engineer. Frade is a pilot. If they turned this up, I think we have to presume that the FBI guy down there already knows all about it. More about it than Ettinger does. Would you agree?"
Graham nodded.
"I can just see J. Edgar going in to see the President with this ransom busi-ness-that is, if he hasn't already been in to see him," Donovan said: "T told you all along, Franklin, that the only thing the Oh So Social (So called by detractors of the OSS, a reference to the fact that many OSS senior officers and agents had been recruited from the upper echelons of business, the Ivy League schools, and society.) is doing down there is spending money and assets and spinning its wheels. My trained inves-tigators, following my mandate to handle all intelligence gathering in the West-ern Hemisphere, have known about this business from the beginning. The nation would be better served if you left this sort of thing to the professionals, to the FBI.'"
Graham smiled and chuckled.
"We took out the Reine de la Mer" he said. "How will Hoover get around that?"
"In the Gospel according to Saint Edgar, the Navy took out the Reine de la Mer. If it hadn't been for the subcommander's After Action Report, we would have had a hard time getting Frade and Pelosi Good Conduct Medals, instead of what they got."
Graham nodded again, remembering the words: When the President read them-Graham had personally taken the After Action Report to him-he or-dered the award of the Navy Cross to Frade, and the next-highest award for con-spicuous valor, the Silver Star, to Pelosi.
19. The undersigned desires to state in conclusion that accomplishment of this mission would have been impossible had it not been for both the professional skill and personal valor of First Lieutenant C. H. Frade, USMCR, and Second Lieutenant A. J. Pelosi, AUS, who, in order to illuminate the target, flew their small unarmed aircraft deliberately into range of the heavy machine gun and automatic cannon antiaircraft weaponry aboard the Reine de la Mer in the certain knowledge that their aircraft would be hit, and probably destroyed, which in fact proved to be the case. Their dedication to duty and personal courage in the face of what appeared to be near-certain death was inspirational, and in keeping with the highest traditions of the Naval Service and the United States Army.
Bryce J. Stevens
Commander, USN
Commanding, USS Devil-Fish
"What do you want me to tell Frade, Bill?" Graham asked.
"What do you think? (a) Continue the investigation as a matter of the high-est priority, (b) Do not communicate to the FBI in any manner whatsoever any-thing remotely involved with the ransoming, (c) Identify the source he calls 'Cavalry.'"
"What do you think this whole thing is all about, Bill? You think it's a mat-ter of policy? And if so, why haven't we heard anything about it here in the United States?"
"I really don't know. My suspicion is that it's some sort of a private opera-tion. Some high-ranking SS sonofabitch has decided there's money to be made, personally, and is in a position to make it. Why not here? Because it's not Ger-man policy, and he doesn't want his private operation to get back to the top-level people in the SS. Or maybe they're involved, the top-level Nazis, and are worried about public opinion. I just don't know, Alex. The only thing I know is that the more we learn about this, and the quicker, the better." Graham grunted again.
"We call it 'Lindbergh,' right? And how do we classify it?" "Top Secret-Lindbergh. Eyes Only, you and me. And 1 mean that. Just you and me. We can't afford somebody with a large mouth on this one." "Right," Graham said, and stood up.
"When I go to the President with this, Alex, I want facts, not suppositions." "Right," Graham repeated, and walked out of his office.
[THREE]
Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo
Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province
1730 11 April 1943
As Clete and Rudolpho rode back to the main house, Clete's mind kept jump-ing back and forth-
I probably should not have given Outline Blue to Mart¡n before reading it thoroughly. I am, after all, an intelligence officer, and there was certainly some-thing in Outline Blue which would interest Graham. Consciously, I know everything is the OSS's business, but did I decide, unconsciously, that since the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos are not any kind of a threat to the United States, it's really none of our business. And just to satisfy Graham's idle curiosity does not justify putting Ramirez and Rawson at risk?
What the hell is Henry Mallin going to do when that Jesuit shows up at his door with Claudia and Humberto and tells him the Virgin Princess is pregnant. And who did it?
1 have to get in touch with Peter and tell him I have his father's letter and the records. I didn't tell Graham about that, either, and I know damned well the OSS would be interested in a German general who plans to assassinate Hitler.
But there are some dangerous sonsofbitches in the OSS, like the two who sent me down here hoping the Germans would kill me so that my father would be pissed off. Those two are gone, but there are probably others who would want to help assassinate Hitler, and that "help" just might get Peter's father killed. If they didn't worry about getting me killed, for the greater good, they certainly wouldn't worry about getting a German general killed. If Peter's fa-ther wanted American help, he would have asked for it.
Is marrying Dorotea really the right thing to do, presuming the Jesuit can do something? Or is marrying me going to get her killed? Her and the child she's carrying ?
What the hell is going on with this ransoming of Jews from concentration camps'? Is Ettinger onto something? Is that the reason that Nazi bastard or-dered him killed?
Maybe, if the Jesuit can fix things with Henry Mallin, and we can get mar-ried, I can send Dorotea to the States to have the baby, and to wait there until this fucking war is over. Martha would be happy to have her, and she wouldn't be in the line of fire on Big Foot Ranch.
There was something very unreal about thinking all of these thoughts while he was cantering across the pampas on a beautiful afternoon, with nothing in sight but cattle and groves of trees.
He remembered the Solomon Islands. It was beautiful and peaceful there too, at 15,000 feet over Guadalcanal. Blue sky and white clouds, with the blue ocean and the nice bright green vegetation of the island far below.
Until the first Japanese planes appeared. Then, all of a sudden, there was no more peace or beauty.
That's going to happen here, too. All of a sudden everything here is going to turn to shit, too. The difference was that in the Solomons, I was at least a pretty good Wildcat pilot. Here I didn't know shit from Shinola.
When they rode up to the house Enrico was waiting for them, sitting in one of the rattan chairs on the verandah. A nice-looking blond-haired kid, thirteen or fourteen years old, sat below him on the wide verandah steps. Each was wearing a loose, white, long-sleeved shirt, black vest, billowing black trousers, and a wide leather belt; and each had a silver-handled knife in the small of his back. Enrico also had a.45 automatic jammed inside his belt, and his shotgun was resting against one of the pillars.
There's no question in his mind that sooner or later he's going to need a gun to protect me. And he's probably right.
Jesus, why couldn't we just keep riding ? But I can't do that, any more than I could have just kept circling 15,000 feet over Guadalcanal.
The nice-looking kid rose to his feet and came off the steps.
"Buenos t
ardes, Patron," he said, reaching up to take Julius Caesar's bit.
Clete swung out of the saddle. The kid mounted Julius Caesar-who, Clete noted with some chagrin, immediately sensed an expert horseman and behaved like a lamb-and reached over to take the reins of Rudolpho's roan. Rudolpho slipped easily out of his saddle, and the kid rode toward the stables.
Even in that gaucho suit, Clete thought, that kid looks more like an Eng-lishman or a German-or maybe a Pole or some other kind of Slav, a Latvian or something-than a Spaniard or an Italian.
He remembered his father telling him there was a massive immigration of Germans at the turn of the century, and another wave of immigrants after World War I-Germans running from the postwar depression in Germany, and Lithua-nians, Latvians, Poles, and Russians fleeing the Russian Bolshevik revolution.
Antonio was also waiting for him to return.
"Are Se¤or Duarte or Se¤ora Carzino-Cormano here?"
"No, Se¤or," Antonio replied as he opened the door to Clete. "Se¤or and Se¤ora Duarte are expected any moment."
"Well, that gives me time for a shower," Clete thought aloud. "Where did you put my things, Antonio?"
"In your room, Se¤or," Antonio said. There was a slight tone of disapproval in his voice.
Ask a dumb question, get a dumb answer. Where else would he put my things?
Oh, God! My room is not where I stayed before. My room is el Coronet's room.
Well, that's the way it is. I better get used to it. El Coronel 's gone, and what used to be his is now mine. Including his room and his bed.
Clete turned to look at Enrico. He was pushing himself out of his chair.
With effort, Clete saw. And tough old soldier or not, you 're in pain, pal. And tough old soldier or not, are you in any shape to try to protect me? Am I going to get you killed, too, just because you 're around me ?
Antonio led him to the apartment of the late el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade-unnecessarily, since Clete knew where it was. It consisted of a bed-room, a sitting, and a bath at the rear of the house. The windows opened on a garden.
In the room there was another sign of Antonio's none-too-subtle snobbery. A clothes tree held a tweed jacket, an open-collared shirt-that's a polo shirt, a real polo shirt, for people who play real polo-and a pair of gabardine riding breeches. A pair of highly polished riding boots stood beside it.
Christ, I hope that stuff's not my father's!
"Your father intended that clothing as a Christmas present for el Capitan Duarte," Antonio said. "He never had a chance to wear it. El Capitan was about your size...."
I would just as soon not wear any clothing made for my dead cousin, not to mention clothing which would make me look like an Englishman about to go chase a fox, but thank you very much, Antonio, just the same.
"Thank you," Clete said. "I'll see if it fits."
The seeds of curiosity were sown, however, while he was taking a shower and shaving: / wonder how I would look in that outfit? The Princess would probably think it made me look-what's that Limey word she uses?-smashing!
And why not wear it? It's new. And you're wearing Uncle Jim's Stetson. And you brought Sullivan's Half Wellingtons home from Guadalcanal and you wear them. So why not wear Cousin Jorge Alejandro's fancy English riding boots and the rest of it? Waste not, want not, as Aunt Martha always says.
A sudden, very clear, and very painful image came into his mind and was still there when he came out of the bathroom in his underwear: First Lieutenant Francis Xavier Sullivan, 167th Fighter Squadron, U.S. Army Air Corps, flying his P-40 in support of the Marine Raiders; going into Edson's Ridge on fire from the nose to the vertical stabilizer.
As Clete walked into the bedroom, he was startled-even frightened for a moment-to find Capitan Roberto Lauffer, in civilian clothing, sitting in an armchair near the bed, his very nice, highly polished jodhpurs crossed on a matching footstool. Clete then noticed that Enrico was also there, leaning on the wall beside the closed door to the sitting.
Lauffer quickly pushed himself out of the chair and offered Clete his hand.
"I thought, mi Mayor," Enrico said, "that it would be all right to bring el Capitan here. Se¤or and Se¤ora Duarte are in the reception."
One Cavalryman taking care of another, huh? Spare a fellow horse soldier from Beatrice ? Well, it least it shows Enrico likes him.
Clete nodded at Enrico to show him he approved, and then looked at Lauf-fer.
Very sporty, Clete thought, that's a damned nice tweed jacket, a classy polo shirt, and he's even got one of those whatchamacallits around his neck.
"Of course," Clete said. "How are you, Roberto?"
"I'm afraid you're stuck with me again," Lauffer said. "General Rawson wants me to stay close to something you're holding for him..."
"The money, you mean?" Clete said, but it was not a question.
"... until he can make arrangements, tomorrow, to safely transport it else-where. Se¤ora Carzino-Cormano said you would understand the necessary im-position this will cause."
"Sure," Clete said. "No imposition at all. When can I expect her?"
"She said that you would understand why she can't call today, but that she looks forward to seeing you tomorrow."
I wonder what that's all about?
Clete started to get dressed.
Cousin Jorge Alejandro's-the late Capitan Duarte's-polo shirt fit him perfectly. The breeches were maybe half an inch too large in the waist, and the jacket was a little loose. But once he managed to work his feet into them, the boots also seemed to fit perfectly.
One other item of clothing was left on the clothes horse, a whatchamacallit like Roberto Lauffer was wearing. Roberto's was yellow. Cousin Jorge Alejan-dro's whatchamacallit was red.
Foulard! It's a foulard!
Maneuvering the silk foulard in place, and making it stay in place, proved more difficult than he thought looping some red silk around his neck would be, but he finally made the thing work.
"Very elegant," Lauffer said.
"I'd feel a lot more comfortable in it if my father's butler hadn't told me my father bought it as a Christmas present for my cousin, the late Capitan Duarte."
"I'm the youngest in a large family," Lauffer said. "I think I was sixteen be-fore I received anything but shoes that weren't previously 'hardly worn at all' by one or more of my brothers. Be grateful it fits. And it is elegant!"
"You look pretty elegant yourself. I never saw you in civvies before."
"One never knows, does one, where one might come across an attractive member of the gentle sex with an eye for a man's clothes," Lauffer said.
"And then, all dressed up, you get yourself screwed by the fickle finger of fate? You get sent over here, where the only female is going to be my Aunt Bea-trice."
"'Fickle finger of fate'? That's good," Lauffer chuckled. "Well, there's al-ways tomorrow." Then, visibly embarrassed: "Forgive me, I was not thinking of what will happen tomorrow. No disrespect was intended."
"I know that," Clete said. "I'm just going through the motions. I'm told the people who work here expect it." He turned to Enrico. "You did find the Capitan someplace to sleep. Enrico?"
"I told Antonio you would wish for el Capitan to be well cared for," Enrico said. "He is the third door to the left."
"Speaking of Aunt Beatrice," Clete said, "Antonio said she'll be here any minute, Enrico. I think el Capitan and I need a little liquid courage before we face her. Is there anything-strong-in here we can drink?"
"Scotch whiskey, mi Mayor?"
Clete looked at Lauffer, who nodded.
"Please, Enrico."
"My pleasure, mi Mayor," Enrico said, and walked out of the bedroom.
He's never going to stop calling me "Major," Clete thought. To hell with it. And then he had another thought: "It's liable to be worse with my aunt than you think," Clete said.
"She is a very charming lady."
"Tonight, she will almost certainly regale you with the details of a wedding we
hope will be held here sometime in the near future."
"Oh, really? Whose?"
"Mine."
Lauffer's eyebrows went up.
"I didn't know you... I hadn't heard that you were engaged."
"At the moment, actually, I'm not," Clete said.
"I don't understand," Lauffer confessed, a little uncomfortably.
Enrico came back into the room carrying not the expected whiskey glasses, but a telephone, a large French-looking instrument.
"It is Padre Welner, Se¤or," he said as he walked to a plug mounted on the wall beside the bed and plugged it in.