by Blood
"I'll be out of town tomorrow," Clete said.
"You can't be out of town tomorrow," Dorotea said.
"It's unavoidable, Dorotea," Humberto said. "He really has to go. Business, you understand, that just can't be put off."
Thank you, Uncle Humberto!
"Where is he going?" Dorotea demanded.
"Posadas," Clete said.
"To Estancia San Miguel," Humberto added. "Business."
"And when will you be returning, Cletus?" Cashley-Price asked.
"Why don't I call you the minute I get back?" Clete said.
"We are going to be very pressed for time," Cashley-Price said.
Waiters appeared with Claudia's drink and champagne.
The first waiter held back until the second waiter had poured the cham-pagne before passing out menus.
Humberto ordered a second bottle of champagne.
Two of Humberto's acquaintances stopped at the table to shake his hand.
Clete glanced at Dorotea, who was scowling at him.
"Cletus, I know what you're thinking," she said. "We have to meet with Fa-ther Cashley-Price."
"I know that," Clete said, and smiled at her.
"They do a very nice rack of lamb in here," Humberto announced.
"May I toast the happy couple?" Father Welner said, raising his glass.
"If we have a morning ceremony," Pamela Mallin said, "people won't ex-pect to be asked to stay over."
"Well, some people will have to stay over anyway," Claudia argued. "And afternoon ceremonies are so much nicer."
"I'm not hungry at all" Dorotea said.
"You have to eat, dear," Pamela Mallin said.
"I'm eating for two, is that what you're saying, Mother?"
"That's not what I meant at all."
"The lamb sounds good to me," Clete said.
"There is one question, Cletus, I have to ask," Monsignor Kelly announced. "You have been baptized as a Christian, haven't you?"
"You're missing the whole point, Father," Father Welner said. "Of course he has. The Church regards him as one of ours. There is no question about that. Actually, I really think that the reason His Eminence granted the dispensation was because he agrees-as do many people in Rome-with the idea that An-glican Holy Orders, and certainly those of Father Cashley-Price-are valid. If that is the case, then-"
"Will you excuse me, please?" Clete said. "I have to wash my hands."
There were caricatures of Emperor Hirohito, Adolf Hitler, and Benito Mus-solini inside the white china urinals in the men's room.
Clete wondered idly if there were caricatures of Franklin Roosevelt, Win-ston Churchill, and Charles de Gaulle in the urinals of the Kempinski Hotel across town.
"Giving Adolf a good Spritz, are you?" a somewhat familiar voice asked behind him. "Or did that double scotch you just tossed down so fast affect your aim?"
Clete looked over his shoulder and saw Milton Leibermann.
"Take your time, Tex," Leibermann said. "When a man's got to go. he's got to go."
Clete's initial annoyance disappeared. He had to smile.
Leibermann, moving very quickly, pushed open all the doors to the toilet stalls in the men's room to make sure they were empty, then walked to the men's room door and jammed his furled umbrella into the chrome pull-handles. He tested it to make sure the doors could not be opened, then turned and smiled at Clete.
"What did you do, Sherlock, follow me?"
"You wouldn't believe I eat here all the time?"
"Of course I would. Would anybody in your line of business lie?"
"So what's new, Tex?"
"Not much, Milton."
"Strange, I thought that over the weekend you might have heard something I'd like to know."
"Not a thing."
"Not even that they're going to have their little revolution? I keep hearing things that make me think it's going to be damned soon."
"I didn't hear a thing. Maybe they're trying to keep it a secret."
"And maybe you wouldn't tell me if you knew," Leibermann said. "Tell you what I'm going to do, Tex. I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt."
"Thank you."
"I'll even tell you something I heard that you will want to know."
"What's that?"
"That SS colonel we were talking about? He put out a contract on your man Ettinger."
"What's a contract?"
"Murder Incorporated? Lewis 'Lepke' Buchalter? Ring a bell? Nice Jewish boy who went bad?" Buchalter was an infamous assassin for hire in New York City.
"I've heard the name."
"I used to spend a lot of time with his income tax records," Leibermann said. "Anyway, a contract means you pay somebody to murder somebody else. Colonel Goltz put out a contract on your man Ettinger."
"Is that so?"
"Either you don't give a damn or you already heard."
"I already heard," Clete said. "But... honest, Leibermann, thank you."
"I thought it very interesting. Just Ettinger. Not you and the paratrooper who blows things up. Just Ettinger. Was that because Ettinger's a Jew, do you think? Or do you have him doing something the Germans don't like, Jew or no Jew?"
"The latter," Clete said. "Or that's what I think."
"You want to tell me what?"
Clete shook his head, "no."
"Maybe I already know about what he's looking for," Leibermann said.
"I can't. I'm sorry."
"Maybe I could tell him something that would keep him alive," Leiber-mann said. "You were lucky, what happened to you. They got people down here who could give lessons to Buchalter."
"I met a couple," Clete said. "Not nice people."
"Tell him to be careful."
"I have."
"Your friend von Wachtstein flew Goltz to Montevideo yesterday, and flew him back today. You don't happen to know what that's all about?"
" 'My friend von Wachtstein'?"
Christ, I'm supposed to meet Peter tonight at The Fish. I'll be on my way to Santo Tome instead.
"He was a guest of honor at your father's requiem mass at your estancia."
"You must have friends all over," Clete said. "Von Wachtstein was there for good manners. He's running around with one of the Carzino-Cormano girls."
"So I heard. You ever think of trying to make friends with him?"
"He's a German officer, for Christ's sake."
"You see Boys' Town? Spencer Tracy said 'there's no such thing as a bad boy,' meaning Mickey Rooney. I figure maybe that all Germans aren't bad. As a matter of fact, I know a couple of good ones. Maybe von Wachtstein's one of the good ones. You ever hear the phrase 'turning an agent'?"
"No. But I can guess what it means."
"Think about it, Tex," Leibermann said. "And think about telling me why the Germans, the bad ones, they call them 'Nazis,' want Ettinger dead."
He walked to the door and pulled his umbrella free.
"Oh. I almost forgot. Mazeltov. That means congratulations, good luck."
"What for?"
"Isn't that a happy bridal party out there? Should be a hell of a wedding, with three priests."
He pushed the door open and walked out.
Clete washed his hands and then rejoined the happy bridal party.
Chapter Seventeen
XVII
[ONE]
El Palomar Airfield Buenos Aires, Argentina 1725 14 April 1943
Standartenf�hrer Goltz and Peter von Wachtstein came to be on a-one-way- first-name basis moments after they stepped into Oberst Gr�ner's Mercedes at the Embassy. Peter thought it interesting that Goltz did not make the overture of friendship-if that's what it was-while they were in Uruguay.
"Which do you prefer your friends to call you, von Wachtstein?" Goltz asked with a smile, " 'Hans-Peter' or 'Hans' or 'Peter'?"
" 'Hans,' Herr Standartenf�hrer."
That was not true. From the age of six, he had learned to increasingly loathe the connection people se
emed too frequently to make between Hansel- the affectionate diminutive of Hans-von Wachtstein, and the sweet little boy in the "Hansel & Gretel" fairy tale. Since it proved impossible to punch the nose of everyone who, after fair warning, called him "Hans," he adopted the re-verse philosophy. Since only assholes would call him "Hans," he would en-courage all assholes to do so.
"You wouldn't mind if I called you 'Hans,' would you, von Wachtstein?"
"Not at all, Herr Standartenf�hrer."
"There is a time, wouldn't you agree, when a certain informality between officers is not only permissible but desirable?"
"I have often thought so, Herr Standartenf�hrer."
"The secret, Hans, is for the junior in such circumstances to correctly pre-dict when the senior is not in the mood for informality. I speak from experience. I once made the mistake-when I myself was a Sturmbannf�hrer, (The SS rank equivalent to major) by the way-of calling Brigadefuhrer (The SS rank equivalent to brigadier general) Max Ruppert... Do you know him, by the way?"
"I have not had that privilege, Herr Standartenf�hrer."
"Fine chap. Splendid officer. For a time, he commanded the Liebstandarte Adolf Hitler. Anyway, he was not at the time in a mood to be addressed as 'Max' by a lowly Sturmbannf�hrer, even one he'd known for years. He gave me a dressing-down I still recall painfully."
Peter laughed dutifully.
If that little vignette was intended to caution me not to call you by your first name, it was unnecessary.
Goltz chatted amiably all the way out to the airport, saying nothing impor-tant. But also nothing, Peter realized, that seemed in any way unusually curious or threatening, just idle chatter.
But from the moment Goltz suggested "they have a little chat" with drinks and dinner to follow, Peter felt uncomfortable. Not only was the very idea that Goltz would go along with him to El Palomar unnerving-it would almost cer-tainly interfere with the talk he must have with Dieter-but there was certainly a reason for Goltz's charm, and Peter wondered what it was, what Goltz wanted from him.
As they approached the passenger terminal, the Condor came into view.
"There it is," Peter said. "It's a beautiful bird, isn't it?"
The Condor was sitting, plugged into fuel trucks and other ground-support equipment, on the tarmac in front of the passenger terminal.
"You miss flying, Hans?" Standartenf�hrer Goltz asked.
"Very much, Herr Standartenf�hrer," Peter replied.
G�nther pulled the car into one of the spaces reserved for the Corps Diplo-matique, jumped out, and pulled the door open for Goltz.
"I'm going to have a word with Nabler, Hans," Goltz said when Peter had gotten out of the car. "A personal matter. Is there somewhere we could have a coffee while you're dealing with the diplomatic pouches?"
"There is a small restaurant in the terminal, Herr Standartenf�hrer."
"Well, then why don't you see if you can find Nabler for me, and tell him where I'll be?"
"Of course, Herr Standartenf�hrer."
What's the connection between him and Nabler? When Dieter warned me to watch out for Nabler, I thought it was simply because he was an enthusiastic Nazi- If Goltz wants a word with him, he's more than that. What? Is he keeping an eye on Dieter specially, or is it just that the SS likes to keep an eye on every-body who's able to spend time out of Germany? What Dieter said when he couldn't get away from Nabler was that Nabler was following him around like a horny dachshund chasing a Great Dane in heat. Was that coincidental, or is Nabler watching Dieter? And if so, why?
He watched Goltz walk toward the terminal and then went to the back of the car to help G�nther with the diplomatic pouches. There were four. Three were mailbag-type pouches and the fourth was a steel box.
"I can manage these, Herr Major Freiherr," G�nther said.
"Your offer is tempting, G�nther, but unfortunately I'm not supposed to let them out of my sight."
He grabbed two of the pouches and started dragging them to the gate in the fence. When he was through it, he saw Dieter and Karl Nabler walking around under the Condor, doing the preflight.
He walked toward them, looking over his shoulder to see that G�nther was following him, staggering under the weight of the third pouch and the steel box.
"Christ," Dieter said, "that's all I need. What the hell is in that steel box, Pe-ter?"
"They don't confide in me."
"What do you figure all that crap weighs?"
"I know precisely what it weighs. A hundred forty point two kilos," Peter said. "Hello, Nabler."
"Herr Major," Nabler replied.
"That's going to put me, with fuel aboard, about three hundred kilos over max gross," Dieter said.
"You should have thought about your intended cargo before you loaded your fuel," Peter said. "We of the Luftwaffe call that 'flight planning.'"
"Thank you so much for the advice," Dieter said sarcastically. "Kiss my ass, Peter."
"Standartenf�hrer Goltz wants a word with you, Nabler," Peter said. "He's in the... G�nther, would you take First Officer Nabler to Standartenf�hrer Goltz?"
"Jawohl, Herr Major Freiherr!"
"Let's get these pouches into the bird," Peter said as Nabler started to fol-low G�nther.
"We of Lufthansa have something called 'preflight inspection,'" Dieter said. "Won't your goddamned pouches wait?"
Clete shook his head, "no."
Dieter picked up the steel box and pouch G�nther had set on the ground and announced, "I can pick this crap up, but I damned sure won't be able to climb the ladder with it."
He put everything down, picked up the third pouch, and started up the lad-der to the passenger compartment. Peter looked at the ladder and picked up only one of the two pouches, then climbed the ladder.
Dieter stopped just inside the door and raised his voice.
"Willi?"
Peter looked down the cabin to the cockpit, where a man was sitting at the flight engineer's position.
"Kapitan?" the man asked.
"There's a box and a pouch under the wing. Would you get them for me, please?"
"Jawohl, Herr Kapitan!"
"Put them in the aft storage," Dieter said, then turned to Peter and softly said, "Willi's very obliging. He doesn't want to be sent back to the Luftwaffe. Luftwaffe Condor flight engineers spend a lot of time in Russia."
"Are there many Condors left?"
"Not many. Our beloved F�hrer has four for his personal use. I suppose, all over, there's another four or five. Maybe six. But not many. I wonder how long they'll be able keep up this charade. You know how many passengers are on the manifest? Five."
"If they cancel these flights, what will you do?"
"Spend a lot of time in Russia, I suppose."
"I have something to go over with you," Peter said. "It's important."
He took the file card with the bank names and account numbers from his pocket. Dieter didn't ask many questions, and Peter wondered how much he un-derstood and could reliably pass on to his father.
"Are you running any risk carrying that card around?" he asked as Dieter slipped the filing card into his shirt pocket.
"The risk I'm worried about is, say four hours from now, looking out the window to find a B-24 pilot waving at me."
He made a gesture of pointing down, an order to land.
"A B-24?" Peter asked, surprised.
"The Americans gave the Brazilians a Navy version of the B-24. They're as fast as the Condor, and they have multiple half-inch Browning machine guns in turrets. Four turrets, if memory serves, plus a couple of single gun positions in the fuselage."
"If that happens, what will you do?"
"Try to keep Nabler from trying to ram the B-24 while I head for the near-est Brazilian airfield-waving a white flag."
"What's Nabler's connection with Goltz?"
"I used to think he was watching me, and Christ knows, he does that, but now I think there's something more than that."
"You're the intelligence officer, Peter. I'm just a simple airplane pilot."