"Quite right, Gradny-Sawz," the ambassador said. "It is a del-icate matter. Give me the details, and I will contact Frade myself. Have him to lunch, perhaps. And then I will decide which of you should carry out our role in Hauptmann Duarte's funeral."
He could tell from the look on Gradny-Sawz's face that that was not the response he was looking for.
What did you want me to say? What are you after?
"While I have you both here," Ambassador von Lutzenberger said. "It seems that three American-North American-nationals, employed by the Radio Corporation of America, have disap-peared. This has been reported to the Argentinean authorities, specifically to the police commander of the Distrito Federal."
(The Federal District, somewhat similar in character to the Dis-trict of Columbia, lies within the Province of Buenos Aires, and includes the city of Buenos Aires.)
"Oh, really?" Gradny-Sawz said, somewhat smugly. "It is being bandied about that certain individuals connected with our embassy have knowledge of this matter. These allega-tions have also come to the attention of the Federal Police."
"I heard the same story," Gradny-Sawz said. "In fact, I have the feeling that the Americans will not be heard from again." "Tell me what rumors you have heard," the Ambassador said. "Your Excellency will understand that these are only rumors," Gradny-Sawz said, visibly enjoying himself, "for I, of course, have no personal information about this incident."
"What did you hear, Anton?" the Ambassador pursued, hoping that neither impatience nor disgust was evident in his voice.
"I heard, Your Excellency, that these three Yankees were sus-pected of certain activities involving neutral shipping-"
"Suspected by the Argentine authorities, you mean?" von Lutzenberger interrupted.
"Yes, Sir. They were suspected of attempting to interfere with neutral shipping, specifically with a Swedish merchant vessel, the Sundsvall, which was anchored in the Bahfa Samboromb¢n while conducting repairs to one of its engines."
(The Rio de la Plata, which empties into the South Atlantic Ocean, separates Argentina from Uruguay. The mouth of the river, which is defined as a line between Punta Norte del Cabo San Antonio, Argentina, and Punta del Este, Uruguay, is approx-imately 160 miles wide. The Bay of Samboromb¢n lies just inside this line.)
"Where exactly in the Bay?" von Lutzenberger asked. "Approximately thirty kilometers east of Pipinas, Your Excel-lency," Gradny-Sawz said. "The Americans, or so the story goes, were about to attempt to sabotage the Sundsvall-to blow a hole in her hull. To this end, they acquired a small motorboat. Their activities came to the attention of the Argentinean Navy, and a patrol boat was sent to locate them. The Americans refused orders to heave to, and a warning shot was fired. Unfortunately, the gunner's aim was off, and the warning shot hit their vessel and sank it."
"But there has been no official report of this incident?"
"I would ascribe that, Your Excellency, to Argentinean pride. It would be embarrassing for them to publicly acknowledge that their gunnery is not what it should be. And unfortunately, there were no survivors."
"You're sure of that?" von Lutzenberger asked.
"My sources inform me, Your Excellency, that a search of the area was made and no survivors were found. I doubt if there will be."
Von Lutzenberger grunted.
"And do your sources confirm what the First Secretary has told me, Herr Oberst?"
"Yes, Sir. The details are essentially the same."
"And do you both confirm that no one can connect these un-fortunate events with anyone at the embassy?"
"I very much doubt if anything like that will happen, Your Excellency," Gradny-Sawz said.
"Herr Oberst?"
"I think that the Argentineans and the Americans will both try to forget this incident as quickly as possible."
"And, Herr Oberst, did your sources tell you whether these three unfortunates might be employed by the American Federal Bureau of Investigation or their Office of Strategic Services?"
"It seems, Your Excellency," Grner said, "that they were connected with the OSS."
Von Lutzenberger looked at Gradny-Sawz, who nodded.
"Pity," von Lutzenberger said. "If we could have tied them to the 'Legal Affairs Office' of the U.S. Embassy, we could al-most certainly have had several people expelled as persona non grata. And what of the ship? The Sundsvall?"
"I believe that once her engines were repaired, she sailed the following morning."
"And her master made no report of this incident?"
"Her master probably decided the less he had to with the Ar-gentinean authorities, the better," Gradny-Sawz said.
"Then she won't be coming back?"
"She is to be replaced, Sir," Grner replied. "She was in these waters for almost two months; her stores were nearly exhausted."
"The Bay of Samboromb¢n is quite wide and quite empty. I would like to know how these Americans located the ship," von Lutzenberger said. "Do you think someone in the Argentinean Navy, or elsewhere in the government, told them?"
"I don't think that's possible," Gradny-Sawz said, almost in-dignantly.
"Anything is possible, my dear Anton," von Lutzenberger said. "Since we know that people in the Argentinean military services and their government will confide in you matters they perhaps should not, I think we have to presume, don't you, that there are people in the same places who talk to Americans about things they probably should not talk about."
"There are even, my dear Gradny-Sawz," Colonel Grner said, "some Argentineans, in and out of the government, who hope for an Anglo-American victory."
Gradny-Sawz gave him a cold look, but did not reply.
"If there's nothing else, gentlemen?" von Lutzenberger asked, looked at the two of them, and then added, "Thank you for your time."
[TWO]
The Monteleone Hotel
New Orleans, Louisiana
0730 9 November 1942
Second Lieutenant Anthony J. Pelosi, CE, AUS, late of the 82nd Airborne Division, was shaving when he heard the knock at his hotel room door. He was taking special care. Today, officers of the U.S. Navy were going to teach him something about ships- and about blowing them up, or at least sinking them. He suspected they would know that he was an Army officer, even if he was in civilian clothing. All the same, he wanted to look like an officer and a gentleman.
He was still smarting about how he looked when he first ar-rived-no goddamned socks, and a goddamned zipper jacket, for Christ's sake! Especially when Sergeant Ettinger was wearing a suit that made him look like a banker. And Lieutenant Frade- after showing up at the railroad station in his cowboy suit- looked like an advertisement in Esquire magazine.
Tony, who was naked, wrapped a towel around his waist, then walked to the door and opened it. He stood behind it so no one would see him wearing only a towel.
"This is for you, Sir," a bellman said, and handed him a twine-wrapped paper package that looked like something you would get back from a Chinese laundry.
"Just a minute," Tony said, then went to the bed and slid his hand between the mattress and the box spring and pulled out his wallet. He took a dollar bill from the wallet and gave it to the bellman.
After he closed the door, he carried the package to the bed and sat down, making sure that he didn't sit on his new tweed sports coat and gray flannel pants that he had laid out to wear. Though it was not what he originally picked out, he liked the clothing more now than when he first bought it. Lieutenant Frade "sug-gested" then that he buy what he did. He was the commanding officer of the team, so Tony went along. Now he was glad he did.
For the first time, Tony saw a sheet of hotel notepaper stuck inside the twine on the package. He took it out and unfolded it:
Pelosi, put this stuff on, and meet me in the dining room at 7:45. A.
A. stood for Adams, one of the three mentors sent down from Virginia. Tony now understood that the word meant something like teacher or counselor; it was just like the OSS to use a
word that nobody understood. Adams was somewhere in his thirties, a slight, bright-eyed man who had been an assistant professor of engineering at the University of Idaho. When Tony asked him how he'd wound up in the OSS, Adams replied, "That's not really any of your business, is it, Pelosi?"
Tony opened the drawer in the bedside table, took out his pocket-knife, cut the twine, and unwrapped the package. It contained a pair of blue dungarees, a canvas jacket with a corduroy collar, a navy-blue woolen turtleneck sweater, a woolen knit cap, long-john underwear, heavy woolen socks, and a pair of work shoes. Each item of clothing was marked somewhere with "USN." It was, Tony realized, the Navy equivalent of Army fatigue clothing.
And then he realized it was Navy enlisted men's work clothing. He'd heard somewhere that in the Navy, officers didn't wear work clothing, because it was below the dignity of a Navy officer to get his hands dirty.
How the hell am I going to look like an officer and a gentleman if I have to wear this Navy enlisted man's shit?
He didn't like what he saw in the mirror when he had put on the clothing. And when he walked into the Monteleone Hotel dining room in the Navy fatigues, he got a dirty look from the headwaiter.
No wonder! I look like I've been sent to unstop the fucking toilet, for Christ's sake, not sit down and have my breakfast.
He looked around the dining room and saw Adams sitting at a table with three sailors. There was a full lieutenant, a chief petty officer, and a bo'sun's mate first class. They were all wearing regular blue uniforms. Two tables away, he saw Lieutenant Frade with a couple of mentors. He had on a blue, brass-buttoned blazer, a crisp white shirt, and a striped necktie.
Lieutenant Frade saw him, smiled as if he thought Tony wear-ing a sailor's work uniform was the funniest thing he had seen all week, and winked at Tony and gave him a thumbs-up sign. Tony pretended he didn't see him and walked to Mr. Adams's table.
"Mr. Pelosi," Adams made the introductions, "this is Lieu-tenant Greene, Chief Norton, and Bo'sun Leech. Gentlemen, this is Mr. Pelosi."
The sailors looked at him with frank curiosity.
Lieutenant Greene shook his hand without speaking. Chief Norton said, "What do you say, Pelosi?" And Bo'sun Leech grunted and tried to squash his hand when he shook it.
There was little conversation at breakfast. Adams and the Navy men-all of whom were at least ten years older than he was, and all of whom, he was sure, thought he looked as funny as Lieu-tenant Frade did-had already eaten their breakfasts. They waited impatiently for him to order and then eat his.
Two vehicles were waiting outside: a Navy-gray truck, sort of a panel truck, but with windows and seats in the back, and Frade's Buick convertible. Frade and his mentors got into the Buick and drove off.
"Why don't you sit in the back, Pelosi?" Lieutenant Greene suggested.
Bo'sun Leech came in the back with him. Lieutenant Greene went behind the wheel, and Chief Norton got in the front beside him.
That pretty well sets up the pecking order, putting me on the bottom, Tony thought. I wonder if Lieutenant Greene knows I'm an officer.
They drove out of town, east, across a long, narrow two-lane bridge set on pilings. Tony saw signs saying they were on U.S. Highway 98.
Chief Norton turned around and looked at him.
"Adams said you know something about explosives, Pelosi. That right?"
I've probably forgotten more about explosives than you ever knew, pal!
"I know a little bit about explosives," Pelosi replied.
"You ever use explosives to cut steel?"
Not more than five or six hundred times.
"A couple of times."
"I generally found when I'm teaching somebody who has a little experience with explosives that the best way is to get him to forget what he thinks he knows and let me start from scratch. Think you could handle that?"
"Why not?"
"This isn't the first time we've done this," Chief Norton said. "Usually we have a lot more time, a couple of days more, any-way."
[THREE]
The Consulate of the Republic of Argentina
Suite 1103
The Bank of New Orleans Building
New Orleans, Louisiana
0900 10 November 1942
"Buenos dias," Clete said to the redhead in the office of the Argentine Consulate.
"Good morning," the redhead said in English. "Can I help you?"
She's not an Argentinean, Clete Frade realized, which surprised him. He'd assumed that anyone who worked in the Argentine Consulate would be an Argentinean. But when he considered that, he realized there was no reason that should be so. It was obviously cheaper to hire a local than bring someone up from Argentina. It reminded him that what he knew about consulates and embas-sies-and for that matter, Argentina-could be written inside a matchbook with a grease pencil.
"I've come to apply for visas," he said, and smiled at her. He set his briefcase on her desk, opened it, and took out the forms and handed them to her.
"There's two applications," she said.
"Well, the sad truth is that my friend, who's going with me, right now thinks he's about to die," Clete said with a smile. "He was out on Bourbon Street all night, and most of the morning, too. I hoped he wouldn't have to come himself."
"I'll have to ask Se¤or Galle about that," she said. "Which one is he?"
"Pelosi," Clete said. "I'm Frade."
She examined Pelosi's visa application carefully.
"Seems to be all right," she said. "Do you have his passport?"
"Yes, Ma'am," Clete said, and handed it to her.
"I'll have to ask Se¤or Galle about it," the redhead said.
She went farther into the office, and a minute or so later a well-dressed, smiling man in his late thirties or early forties came into the outer room.
"Good morning," he said. His English was very faintly ac-cented. "Miss O'Rourke gives me to believe that Bourbon Street has claimed yet another victim. My name is Galle."
He offered his hand.
"Frade," Clete said, taking it. "Clete Frade."
"I'm pleased to meet you," Galle said, looking at him care-fully.
That look, Clete thought, went beyond idle curiosity.
"May I ask why you're traveling to Argentina?" Galle asked as he picked up the visa applications.
"It's on the application, Se¤or," Clete said, switching to Span-ish. "Our company is opening an office in Buenos Aires."
"And your company is?" Galle asked, in English.
"Howell Petroleum," Clete said. "Actually a subsidiary. Howell Petroleum (Venezuela)."
"Oh, yes. I know them," Galle said. "And I see that your name is Howell. Is there a connection?"
"My grandfather founded the company."
"I'm not always this inquisitive," Galle said. "But we're co-operating with your government in a rather delicate area. It would seem that your government has discovered that a number of young men have decided they would much rather enjoy the de-lights of Buenos Aires than those of, say, Fort Benning."
"Really?"
"Our policy is that we inform young men of a certain age that while we would be pleased to grant them a visa to visit Argentina, there will be a delay of a week or so while we confer with your Department of Justice. A number of young men, upon hearing that, have decided to change their travel plans."
"Both Mr. Pelosi and I have done our service," Clete said.
"You would not be offended if I asked to see your discharge papers?" Galle asked.
"Right here in my briefcase," Clete said. "Mine and Se¤or Pelosi's. And I do have my brand-new draft card, which shows my classification. Medically discharged."
"That should do it," Galle said, finally switching to Spanish himself. "You speak Spanish very well, Se¤or."
"Thank you," Clete said.
After carefully examining the discharge documents and Clete's draft card, Galle handed them back to him with a smile.
"No offense, Se¤or Frade?"
Galle bent over the desk and scrawled an initial on one of the visa applications:-Clete could not see which one-and then started to do the same thing on the other.
"Oh, this is interesting," Galle said, straightening and looking directly at Clete. "You're an Argentinean, Mr. Frade."
"No," Clete said. "I was born there, but I'm an American citizen. My mother was an American."
W E B Griffin - Honor 1 - Honor Bound Page 17