‘‘If the Germans can hang on to the Russian oil reserves, which means they can simply steal the Russians’ oil, fine for them. They don’t need Argentina. But if they can’t hang on to free oil, they’re going to have to get it somewhere. They are in a fine position to barter with Argentina. Germany, like the United States, is industrialized. Argentina isn’t. The German factories turn out things Argentina needs—automobiles, trucks, electricity-generating systems, locomotives, that sort of thing—and Argentina pays for them with crude oil. You getting the picture?’’
‘‘But Argentina is not producing enough oil for its own needs,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Isn’t that why Howell is shipping them both crude and products?’’
‘‘I’m not talking about now, Cletus, I’m talking ten, twenty years down the pike, long after I have gone to my reward. You’ve got to start thinking about that now. With Jim gone to his reward, you’re going to have to take over Howell for me when I go.’’
‘‘No,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Not necessarily. Odds are that Marjorie or Beth will latch on to some oil type. Or both of them will. Houston’s full of them.’’
‘‘No, Clete,’’ Martha said. ‘‘He’s right, for once.’’
‘‘Of course I’m right,’’ the Old Man said.
‘‘Jim and I talked about it,’’ Martha said. ‘‘The way his will was written—and mine—the girls get the preferred stock, and that income, but you’ll get Jim’s and my voting stock, and control of the company.’’
‘‘He never said anything about anything like that to me,’’ Clete said. The conversation was making him uncomfortable.
‘‘He thought there would be time, we both did, when you came home after the war.’’
There was a moment’s silence, and then Clete decided to change the subject. ‘‘You’re talking as if you think Germany might win the war, Germany and Japan.’’
‘‘Will German tanks roll down Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington? Or will Jap soldiers bayonet people and rape women in Beverly Hills like they did in Nanking? That’s highly improbable. But I’ll tell you what is possible—an armistice. The First World War ended with an armistice, why not this one?’’
‘‘I never even thought about an armistice,’’ Clete thought aloud.
‘‘You know what happened at Stalingrad?’’
‘‘I don’t know what you mean.’’
‘‘The Germans lost a whole army there. Six hundred thousand men and all their equipment.’’
‘‘That many? I never thought about that, either. I don’t think we had forty thousand Marines on Guadalcanal.’’
‘‘Can you imagine what would have happened here if you had had to surrender on Guadalcanal? If forty thousand Americans had been killed? Roosevelt would have been impeached—which might not be such a bad idea, come to think of it. And we’re a hundred and eighty million people. There are about seventy million Germans. Six hundred thousand is almost one percent of seventy million.’’
‘‘What’s your point? You’ve lost me.’’
‘‘My point is this,’’ the Old Man said. ‘‘Somewhere, right now in Germany, there are people—important people, and whatever you want to say about the Germans, they aren’t stupid —who are facing the facts. If they are losing one percent of the total population in just one battle, and the war is nowhere near over, then it’s time to get out of the war.’’
‘‘I don’t think Hitler is in any danger of getting himself impeached,’’ Clete said. ‘‘He’s a dictator, remember?’’
‘‘You’ve read The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. A lot of big-time dictators suddenly found themselves out of a job when their people had had enough.’’ The Old Man drew his meat knife across his throat. ‘‘Remember that?’’
‘‘I think the word for that is ‘regicide,’ ’’ Clete said softly. ‘‘Killing the king.’’
‘‘Well, I’m impressed. Maybe you did learn something at Tulane after all.’’
I didn’t learn that word at Tulane. I learned it in Buenos Aires, when Peter von Wachtstein translated the letter from his father, in which Generalmajor von Wachtstein announced that his officer’s honor required that he commit the act of regicide.
You’re right, Grandfather. We’re not talking in the abstract here. We’re talking about real people actually committing regicide.
‘‘Always stand pat on sixteen, you mean?’’
‘‘I was trying to be complimentary,’’ the Old Man said. ‘‘Sooner or later, and I think sooner, Hitler will be deposed. As soon as that happens, the Germans will seek an armistice, and we’ll give it to them.’’
‘‘President Roosevelt called for unconditional surrender at the Casablanca Conference.’’
‘‘If the Germans offer an armistice, we’ll take it,’’ the Old Man said, dismissing Roosevelt’s pronouncement. ‘‘And once that happens, and the Japanese realize that they’re all alone, they’ll ask for one too.’’
‘‘I don’t agree with that at all. Japs don’t surrender. We learned that on the ’Canal.’’
‘‘If the Emperor tells them he’s decided there should be an armistice, there’ll be an armistice,’’ the Old Man said flatly. ‘‘Anyway, for the sake of argument, indulge me. The war is over. Germany wants to barter manufactured goods for Argentine crude. I would be happier if they were bartering with us, but that looks unlikely.’’
‘‘Wait a minute, you’re losing me.’’
‘‘I would like to barter our crude to Argentina, our Venezuela crude—preserving our own oil reserves—for American manufactured products, but that’s not about to happen.’’
‘‘Why not?’’
‘‘Germany will make them a better deal. They really will need crude. And so will the Japs. They’ll sell them an equivalent washing machine, or automobile, for less than we will.’’
‘‘So where does that leave us?’’
‘‘Out in the cold, unless we get in on the ground floor when the Argentines start developing their oil fields. If we get in on exploration and production first, we can take a percentage of whatever they produce. So we’re back to where this conversation started. It will behoove you, Cletus, to pay attention to Henry Mallín. He could be very important to us.’’
‘‘I’m going down there as a Marine, as the Assistant Naval Attaché, not to cut an oil deal.’’
‘‘Funny, you always struck me as being smart enough to walk and chew gum at the same time. All I’m asking you to do is be nice to Henry Mallín for our own selfish purposes. ’’
‘‘I give you my word as an officer and gentleman by act of Congress that I will be the essence of charm and goodwill toward Enrico Mallín.’’
If not for the reasons you want me to.
The Old Man looked at him for a long moment, then nodded.
‘‘This boiled cat isn’t as bad as it smells, is it?’’
‘‘Not if you wash it down with enough of the vinegar.’’
‘‘You go easy on the vino when you get down there, Cletus. And I don’t want you earning any more medals. You’ve done your fair share in this war, and then some. Let somebody else do their share. You just go out—what did you say?—on the canapé-and-idle-conversation circuit and sit out the rest of the war. I want you back in one piece. I want a male great-grandchild.’’
‘‘Well, I could start to work on that the minute I get down there. I have seen—’’
‘‘I’m not so foolish as to try to tell you to keep your pecker in your pocket. But carry on with somebody you won’t have to marry if you get her in the family way. One Argentine in-law in my lifetime has been more than enough.’’
‘‘If it wasn’t for my father, I wouldn’t be sitting here with you.’’
‘‘Possibly not, but your mother, may she rest in peace, would be. She could have had her pick of any one of—’’
‘‘Strange,’’ Clete interrupted the Old Man, ‘‘but I seem to recall hearing all this before.’’
&
nbsp; ‘‘All right,’’ the Old Man said. ‘‘Just don’t write me a letter and tell me you’ve found some female down there you want to marry.’’
‘‘That’s highly improbable.’’
‘‘It better be impossible,’’ the Old Man snapped, and then suddenly his entire aura changed. He looked old and vulnerable, not delightfully feisty.
‘‘Clete, if there is one thing that would break my heart, kill me, it would be if you were to get seriously involved down there. It would kill me if you married an Argentine. Your mother did that, and look what happened to her.’’
‘‘I have no plans to marry anybody in Argentina,’’ Clete said.
That is the truth. I would like to, but it’s simply out of the question.
‘‘Don’t change your mind,’’ the Old Man snapped, his feistiness returning as quickly as it left. ‘‘That’s a hell of a long airplane ride for an old man to take with a bullwhip to beat some sense into you. Which I assure you I would do.’’
Clete shook his head. ‘‘I’m terrified,’’ he said.
He sensed that he would remember the old man’s momentary vulnerability for a long time, perhaps forever.
What the hell’s the matter with me? The question is moot. It is because I love her that I can’t marry her. The worst thing I could do to her, in my line of work, is marry her. Make her pregnant. Leaving her a widow with an American child would be a hell of a lot more rotten thing to do than what my father did to my mother.
III
[ONE] 3470 St. Charles Avenue New Orleans, Louisiana 2305 5 April 1943
The Cadillac turned off St. Charles and stopped while the chauffeur opened the gate. When it did, they could see lights burning behind the drapes of the library of the Howell Mansion.
‘‘It must be the new maid,’’ the Old Man said. ‘‘Jean-Jacques knows better than to throw money away lighting empty rooms.’’
"Or there may be somebody in the library,’’ Clete said, "who’s afraid of the dark."
"Somebody in the library? At this hour?’’ Martha asked doubtfully.
‘‘There’s a car at the curb,’’ Clete said, gesturing toward a black Ford Fordor.
The Old Man did not follow the gesture.
‘‘My guests park their cars inside the fence, on the drive,’’ the Old Man said.
Jean-Jacques opened the portico door to admit them.
‘‘Colonel Graham is in the library, Mr. Howell,’’ he said, ‘‘with two other gentlemen.’’
‘‘Is he really?’’ the Old Man said, and headed for the library. Clete followed him. After a moment’s hesitation, Martha followed Clete.
Afterward, Clete was to remember that his reaction to the unexpected appearance of Colonel Graham was curiosity. He had no concern that something might have gone wrong—much less a premonition that disaster had struck.
‘‘Well, hello, Graham,’’ the Old Man said. ‘‘Jean-Jacques get you everything you need?’’
‘‘Mr. Howell,’’ Graham said. ‘‘Clete.’’
The Deputy Director for Western Hemisphere Operations of the OSS was a short, trim, tanned, barrel-chested, bald-headed man in his fifties. He was as well-tailored as Clete’s grandfather and wore a neatly trimmed pencil-line mustache.
‘‘A sus órdenes, mi Coronel,’’ Clete replied—‘‘[I stand] at your orders, Colonel’’—primarily to annoy the Old Man. Although his grandfather spoke fluent Spanish himself as a result of his years in Venezuela, he devoutly believed the world would be a far better place if everybody spoke English.
The Old Man flashed Clete a dirty look.
‘‘I don’t believe you know my daughter-in-law,’’ the Old Man said. ‘‘Mrs. James F. Howell. Martha, this is Colonel Graham.’’
‘‘I’ve heard a lot about you, Colonel,’’ Martha said, offering him her hand.
‘‘Have you really?’’ Graham said, looking at the Old Man. ‘‘It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, Ma’am.’’
‘‘Not that you’re unwelcome at any hour, of course, Graham, ’’ the Old Man said, ‘‘but curiosity . . . ’’
‘‘I apologize for the hour,’’ Graham said, ‘‘but it was unavoidable. I’m afraid that I’m the bearer of some very bad news.’’
‘‘Is that so?’’
‘‘Clete, I have to tell you that your father is dead,’’ Graham said.
‘‘Oh, Clete, honey, I’m so sorry!’’ Martha said, and touched his cheek.
‘‘What happened?’’ Clete asked after a moment.
‘‘We don’t know much, and what we do know we haven’t been able to verify. It seems there was a robbery attempt last night on the estancia highway. Your father resisted and was shot to death. I’m very sorry.’’
‘‘What about Enrico?’’ Clete asked without thinking.
‘‘Enrico?’’ Graham asked, confused.
‘‘Enrico Rodríguez, my father’s . . . sergeant,’’ Clete said. ‘‘He never goes . . . went . . . anywhere without him.’’
‘‘Clete, I just don’t know,’’ Graham said.
‘‘Cletus, I’m sorry,’’ the Old Man said. ‘‘I—’’
‘‘Those sonsofbitches,’’ Clete said bitterly. ‘‘They couldn’t get me, so they got him!’’
‘‘We don’t know that, Clete,’’ Graham said.
Clete snorted.
‘‘What do you mean, ‘they couldn’t get you’?’’ Martha asked, horrified.
‘‘Nothing,’’ Clete said.
‘‘I want to know,’’ Martha went on, ‘‘what Cletus meant when he said they tried to get him!’’
Graham, visibly uncomfortable, looked as if he was carefully framing a reply.
‘‘If you’re thinking about telling me this is none of my business, save your breath,’’ Martha said.
Graham looked at her directly for a long moment before deciding that she could not be cowed.
‘‘An attempt was made on Clete’s life, Mrs. Howell,’’ Graham replied. ‘‘Obviously, it failed.’’
‘‘An attempt was made on his life? By whom?’’
‘‘In Clete’s case, we have reason to believe it was the Germans,’’ Graham said.
‘‘Christ,’’ Clete said. ‘‘We know it was the Germans. And it was the Germans who killed my father.’’
‘‘We don’t know that,’’ Graham argued.
‘‘I’ll damned sure find out when I get down there.’’
‘‘We have to talk about that, Clete,’’ Graham said.
‘‘What do you mean, talk about it?’’
‘‘This unfortunate development opens a number of other possibilities for us,’’ Graham said, ‘‘which we really should not—I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Howell—discuss in your presence. ’’
‘‘Us meaning the OSS?’’ the Old Man interrupted.
‘‘Yes,’’ Graham said, simply.
‘‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,’’ Clete said.
‘‘We’ve been thinking—’’ Graham began.
‘‘We is who?’’ the Old Man interrupted, and when Graham looked at him in shock and annoyance at the interruption, went on: ‘‘And don’t tell me this is none of my business, Graham. We’re in my library, and I have been involved in this whole business from the beginning. And for that matter, so has Mrs. Howell, so don’t try to exclude her, either.’’
Graham’s face was stiff for a moment, but then he smiled and shrugged.
Then he turned to one of the men who came with him, a slim man in his thirties, who wore his hair combed straight back and, like Graham, sported a pencil-line mustache. ‘‘Delojo,’’ he said, ‘‘this is one of those circumstances we were talking about when it is necessary to deviate from procedure.’’
Delojo nodded but did not smile.
‘‘Excuse me,’’ Graham went on. ‘‘Mrs. Howell, Mr. Howell, may I present Lieutenant Commander Frederico Delojo, U.S. Navy, and Mr. Quinn?’’
Quinn was a stocky
, pale-skinned Irishman, also in his thirties.
Delojo offered his hand first to Martha and then to the Old Man. When the Old Man shook Delojo’s hand and then Quinn’s, he made it clear with the gesture that while he was willing to be civil, his patience was being strained.
‘‘You were saying, Graham?’’ he challenged.
‘‘You understand, I’m sure, Mrs. Howell, Mr. Howell, that we are dealing here with highly classified material affecting national security—’’
‘‘Get to the point, Colonel,’’ Martha interrupted. ‘‘I sit on the National Oil Production Board. I have a TOP SECRET security clearance.’’
‘‘Yes, I know, Mrs. Howell,’’ Graham said. ‘‘But you are not cleared for OSS information. May I continue?’’
‘‘Go ahead,’’ she said.
‘‘I want both you and Mr. Howell to understand that severe penalties, including the death penalty, are provided for the unauthorized disclosure of material classified by the OSS as TOP SECRET. Do you both understand that?’’
‘‘I’ll take that as a recitation of some bureaucratic drivel you feel compelled to make,’’ the Old Man said, ‘‘rather than a threat. If I thought you were threatening me—or my daughter-in-law—I would have to do something about it.’’
‘‘Grandfather . . .’’ Clete said.
‘‘It’s all right, Clete,’’ Graham said. ‘‘Actually, Mr. Howell, in this case I was referring to Director Donovan and myself when I said ‘we.’ ’’
Colonel William J. Donovan, a Wall Street lawyer, and winner of the Medal of Honor in World War I, had been named Director of the OSS by his longtime friend, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt.
‘‘I’m tempted to call Bill Donovan right now and tell him you’re down here threatening me,’’ the Old Man said.
‘‘Go ahead,’’ Graham said. ‘‘I’m sure you have his number —’’
‘‘Damned right I do,’’ the Old Man interrupted.
‘‘And equally sure that he would tell you what I have just told you.’’
He pointed to the telephone.
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