‘‘How did you get access to a SECRET addressed to the Ambassador?’’
‘‘I seduced one of the crypto guys,’’ Tony said. ‘‘A real feather merchant from Iowa or someplace like that. Buck sergeant.’’
‘‘ ‘Seduced’? Or ‘corrupted’?’’ Clete interrupted, smiling.
‘‘Whatever. I showed him my OSS ID. He practically pissed in his pants. Anything you want to know about cable or radio traffic to the Embassy, just ask me.’’
‘‘And you’re not worried he’ll tell anybody you . . . seduced him?’’
‘‘I told him we shoot people who identify OSS agents,’’ Tony said. ‘‘And he believes me.’’
‘‘Maybe we can make a spy out of you yet, Tony,’’ Clete said.
Tony flushed with Clete’s approval.
‘‘You going to tell me about Commander Delojo? You were supposed to be the Naval Attaché. What’s going on?’’
‘‘Not here, Tony,’’ Clete said. ‘‘You remember where my father’s house is?’’ Tony nodded. ‘‘OK. Give me twenty minutes to get out of here. I’ll catch a taxi over there—’’
‘‘Your Buick is here, Señor Clete,’’ Enrico interrupted.
‘‘You had it brought here?’’ Clete asked, surprised. "Why?"
‘‘It attracts less attention to carry a shotgun in a private car than in a taxi, Señor Clete.’’
‘‘So it does,’’ Clete said, smiling. ‘‘It’s in the basement? ’’
"Sí, Señor Clete.’’
‘‘OK. Tony, anytime in the next twenty minutes, go down to the garage in the basement. I’ll make an appearance downstairs, and meet you there.’’
After Tony realized that Enrico was hurt worse than he was willing to admit, he finally persuaded him to take the front passenger seat in the Buick, but only after he argued that using the shotgun from there would be easier than from the back, if using it became necessary.
Clete came to the garage a half hour later, having taken longer to do his manners in the reception than he imagined. The exit from the basement garage let them out behind the house, on Avenida Posadas, and they were thus able to avoid the crowd still on Avenida Alvear.
When he adjusted the rearview mirror, Clete noticed a car, an English Ford, called an ‘‘Anglia,’’ pull away from the curb and follow them. When he reached Avenida del Libertador and turned left, the Anglia was still on his tail. There was no question they were being followed.
He considered, and immediately dismissed, the idea that it might be another set of German-sent assassins. There hadn’t been time to plan something like that, and he didn’t think even the Germans would try to kill the son on the same day he buried his father.
But who is trailing me? And why? To keep track of my movements, or to protect me?
The route to the Avenida Coronel Díaz took them past the residence of the Ambassador of the United States of America to the Argentine Republic. The American flag flew over the four-story mansion, whose grounds took in most of the block.
Primarily to keep Enrico from finding out they were being trailed—God only knows how he would react—Clete leaned across him and pointed out the statue of George Washington in the park across from the Ambassador’s residence.
‘‘George Washington, Tony. You ever see that before?’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ Tony replied without much interest.
‘‘He had bad teeth,’’ Clete announced.
‘‘What?’’
‘‘While I was futzing around Washington, I drove over to Mount Vernon,’’ Clete said. ‘‘They’ve got his false teeth on display. They’re wood. Jesus, he probably couldn’t eat anything but mush.’’
‘‘No shit?’’
‘‘If they had shown me those wooden choppers when I was a kid, they wouldn’t have any trouble getting me to brush my teeth.’’
‘‘Between bullshit lectures on how I was supposed to behave ‘as a member of the diplomatic community’ and that crypto class at Camp A. P. Hill, I didn’t have any time in Washington to do anything but piss and brush my teeth,’’ Tony said.
Clete laughed.
‘‘Wooden teeth, Señor Clete?’’ Enrico asked in disbelief.
‘‘Wooden teeth, Enrico,’’ Clete said.
The Anglia stayed with them until they turned into the drive of the house on Avenida Coronel Díaz, when it drove slightly past the house and pulled to the curb.
I will have to keep in mind that Enrico didn’t spot that car. He’s good, but he’s not perfect.
[TWO] 1728 Avenida Coronel Díaz Palermo, Buenos Aires 1545 10 April 1943
Tony looked around in exaggerated awe as they passed through the hotel-size foyer of the Frade mansion.
‘‘You’re going to live here? Won’t you be a little cramped for space?’’
‘‘I’d like to move back into the house on Libertador, but there’s a colonel named Perón staying there.’’
‘‘Who’s he?’’
‘‘My father’s best friend. He just came back from Germany. ’’
‘‘What was he doing in Germany?’’
‘‘I have no idea,’’ Clete said, ‘‘but he told me he finds it impossible to believe the Germans were involved in my father’s assassination.’’
‘‘Oh, shit!’’ Tony said. ‘‘Clete, my back teeth are floating. ’’
‘‘Over there,’’ Clete said, stopping on the first step of the stairs to the second floor and pointing. ‘‘Unless you can wait until we get upstairs?’’
‘‘Over there will do very nicely, thank you very much, Major, Sir,’’ Tony said, and walked quickly to the restroom.
Enrico touched Clete’s arm.
‘‘Señor Clete, we are being followed by the clowns. One of their cars, an Anglia, followed us from Avenida Alvear.’’
‘‘You didn’t say anything.’’
‘‘We don’t have to worry about the clowns any longer, Señor Clete. El Coronel Martín is now one of us,’’ Enrico said, and then asked, ‘‘You did not notice that we were being followed?’’
Clete shook his head, ‘‘no.’’
‘‘You must be on the lookout for such things,’’ Enrico said. ‘‘A car following you may not be a clown car.’’
‘‘You’re right.’’
Tony came out of the restroom a moment later, a look of satisfaction on his face, and the three of them continued up the stairs.
Once they were in his bedroom, Clete rang for a maid, ordered drinks and something to nibble on, then changed out of his suit and into a pair of khakis.
‘‘OK,’’ he said, walking back into the sitting from his bedroom to find Tony drinking from the neck of a bottle of Quilmes beer. ‘‘I feel better. I really wanted to get out of that suit.’’
He spotted a silver wine cooler filled with ice and beer and took one, dismissing the maid’s offer of a glass, and the maid herself, with a smile and a waved hand.
He slumped into an armchair facing Tony.
‘‘How was your leave?’’ Clete asked, taking a sip of his beer.
‘‘We came all the way over here to talk about my leave?’’
‘‘Indulge me, Tony. I’ve had a bad couple of days. This is the first time I’ve had a chance to sit down and relax.’’
Tony gave him a strange look, then shrugged.
‘‘Very nice,’’ he said. ‘‘My leave was nice. I could have done without those bullshit briefings in Washington. And the crypto school was worse.’’
‘‘They were necessary, I suppose. I went through them too.’’
‘‘Not the crypto school, you didn’t,’’ Tony corrected him. ‘‘Or the aerial photography school.’’
‘‘What did you tell your family?’’
‘‘I told them what the OSS told me to tell them. We’re building a secret air base in Brazil. I’m handling the demolitions. ’’
‘‘They believe you?’’
‘‘Yeah. My mother said a novena to thank God
for getting me out of the Eighty-second Airborne, where I was liable to have to do something dangerous.’’
‘‘Obviously, you didn’t wear your Silver Star in Chicago. ’’
‘‘I didn’t get it until I went to Washington.’’
‘‘Did you tell your family about Maria-Teresa?’’
‘‘If I told my mother I’d found a girl down here, she would think Maria-Teresa has a ring in her nose and runs around in the jungle wearing a grass skirt and no shirt.’’
‘‘As long as she’s Italian and Catholic, what’s wrong with the ring in Maria-Teresa’s nose?’’
‘‘I want to marry her, Clete.’’
‘‘Is that a statement, or are you asking for advice?’’
Tony shrugged.
‘‘Tony, I spent the last two hours on the plane rehearsing the speech that I was going to give to break it off with Dorotéa,’’ Clete said. ‘‘It was a good speech, but I never got to use it. I’ll be happy to give it to you. The major point is that we’re in the wrong business to get married.’’
‘‘It sounds like you changed your mind.’’
‘‘The situation changed,’’ Clete said dryly, and then added: ‘‘Dorotéa’s pregnant.’’
Tony raised his eyebrows. ‘‘When did you find that out?’’
‘‘This morning,’’ Clete said.
‘‘Her father will shit a brick,’’ Tony said. ‘‘He doesn’t like Americans in general, and you, Ettinger, and me in particular.’’
‘‘I don’t think he will be beside himself with joy,’’ Clete agreed. ‘‘And neither will my grandfather.’’
‘‘What’s he got against Dorotéa?’’
‘‘He hates all Argentines.’’
‘‘Jesus, Clete. What are you going to do? Marry her?’’
‘‘I don’t really have any choice, do I?’’
‘‘Now I see what you mean about having a couple of bad days,’’ Tony said. ‘‘When are you going to marry her?’’
‘‘I just found out this morning that she’s pregnant, for Christ’s sake! Nobody knows but Dorotéa, me, and now you.’’
‘‘Where are you going to live?’’ Tony asked, and from the tone of his voice, Clete understood that it was not an idle question.
‘‘You really think those bastards would come after her?’’
‘‘They got Señora Pellano,’’ Tony said. ‘‘She was an innocent bystander.’’
‘‘I hadn’t thought about where we’ll live. Either here— it would be safer than Libertador—or at the estancia.’’
‘‘She’d probably be all right here,’’ Tony said practically. ‘‘This place is built like a bank. But the estancia would be better, obviously.’’
Clete didn’t want to think about, much less talk about, the danger Dorotéa was going to find herself in. He changed the subject again.
‘‘Is Maria-Teresa pushing you to get married?’’
‘‘She’s a good Italian Catholic. Good Italian Catholic girls can’t go to confession and get absolution unless they swear to God that they’ll stop . . . you know. If they don’t get absolution, they can’t take Holy Communion. That kind of pushing. She hasn’t said anything.’’
‘‘You haven’t told her what you do, I hope?’’
‘‘Her father thinks the Reine de la Mer blew up by itself; that all the talk about Americans taking it out is bullshit. I sit there nodding my head in agreement. Maria-Teresa thinks I’m sort of a clerk for the Military Attaché at the embassy. So does he, by the way, the Military Attaché.’’
‘‘He’s giving you trouble?’’
‘‘Not trouble. He’s a colonel, I’m a lieutenant. When colonels have things they don’t want to do, and there’s a lieutenant around, the lieutenant does them. Last week, I inventoried the Embassy Post Exchange.’’
‘‘No kidding?’’ Clete asked, chuckling. ‘‘That’s right. He doesn’t know you’re OSS, does he?’’
‘‘I was told to wait until you got back and tell him. But I don’t know. They gossip like fucking women around the embassy. I think everybody there knows you’re OSS. And some people know I was here before.’’
‘‘Commander Delojo will get him off your back.’’
‘‘Are we back to him, I hope?’’ Tony said.
‘‘OK. Sorry, Tony. I needed a minute. Your fearless leader has feet of clay.’’
‘‘What the fuck does that mean, ‘feet of clay’? I’ve always wondered.’’
‘‘You know, I don’t know,’’ Clete confessed. ‘‘It probably means I’m telling you that you see in me a lot more than you can expect to get.’’
‘‘I don’t know,’’ Tony said thoughtfully. ‘‘I mean, aside from nearly getting Mrs. Pelosi’s baby boy killed, doing something that nobody in their right fucking mind would even think about trying to do, what have you done so wrong?’’
‘‘You want me to start with the replenishment ship?’’
‘‘Why not?’’
‘‘There’s not really much more on that than when you left Washington,’’ Clete said. ‘‘We’re getting lots of intelligence about ships headed in this direction. The last count was five of them. Nothing specific, nothing solid, on any one of them.’’
‘‘Maybe they’re sending five so we can’t take them all out.’’
‘‘Graham says that’s not likely. For one thing, the Germans don’t have that many torpedoes.’’
‘‘How does Graham know that?’’
‘‘They’ve got a good idea of how many the Germans can make, and they’re not all that hard to spot when they’re being moved. Graham thinks that one of the five ships is the replacement; the others are decoys. The real ship, Graham says, may not be one of the five we know about.’’
‘‘What about the airplane? How are you going to get that into the country now that . . .’’
"... my father can’t arrange it?" Clete furnished. "I don’t know. Graham may come up with something. It’s in Brazil, and so is the other team. They’ve been told to prepare to infiltrate across the Uruguay River into Corrientes Province, near some town called Santo Tomé. Until Delojo gets, quote, his feet on the ground, unquote, that’s something else I’m supposed to figure out how to do, get them— and all their goddamned equipment—from there to here.’’
‘‘Tell me about Delojo,’’ Tony said. ‘‘What’s this business all about that you’ve retired from the Marines—I saw that story in the Herald—and this Commander Whatsisname has become the Naval Attaché?’’
‘‘Graham convinced me I would be more useful if I came back here as an Argentine. Out of the Marines, and as an Argentine. That way, presuming this coup d’état they’re planning comes off, I’m supposed to be in a position to influence the new government.’’
‘‘But if you came back as an Argentine . . . How did you manage that, by the way?’’
‘‘I’ve got an Argentine passport.’’
‘‘A real one?’’
‘‘A real one. File this away. I’ve got Argentine passports for you, Ettinger, and the Chief, too. Or I did. Where are they, Enrico?’’
‘‘In the safe at San Pedro y San Pablo,’’ Enrico said. ‘‘I did not want Señora Carzino-Cormano to see them.’’
And I goddamned sure don’t want General Rawson—or, for that matter, Claudia—to see them. I’ve got to get into that goddamned safe before she does!
‘‘I don’t understand any of that,’’ Tony said.
‘‘Just before we took out the Reine de la Mer, my father got us passports in case we had to leave Argentina in a hurry.’’
Tony nodded his understanding, then asked: ‘‘But if you came here on an Argentine passport . . . Christ, you’re not traveling on a diplomatic passport?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘You realize what that means? If I get caught doing something I shouldn’t be doing down here, all they can do is throw me out of the country. Christ only knows what they’ll do t
o you. I can’t believe you were dumb enough to go along with that.’’
‘‘None of us had diplomatic passports the first time we came down here. Ettinger still doesn’t have one.’’
‘‘We had American passports. They’d think twice before standing an American citizen in front of a wall. An Argentine? You’re likely to get yourself shot on general principles. ’’
‘‘I don’t think that’s likely.’’
‘‘Everybody with enough brains to find their ass with one hand knows we’re OSS, Clete. Who does Graham think we’re fooling?’’
‘‘I don’t think Graham thinks we’re fooling anybody.’’
‘‘Then what?’’
‘‘Our team, Tony—presuming Captain Ashton’s radar gets here, and works—is going to have very little to do with taking out the replacement replenishment ship, except for using our radio to communicate with the submarine. Graham hopes everybody will be so busy watching us, they won’t be looking too hard for another team.’’
‘‘And what if Ashton can’t get his radar in here?’’
‘‘Then we’ll have to locate the ship.’’
‘‘With a Piper Cub?’’
‘‘Unless I can figure out some way to get the C-45 into Argentina.’’
‘‘How’s the other team going to take it out?’’
‘‘You weren’t briefed?’’
‘‘You explain it to me.’’
‘‘Graham will let us know the name of the ship as soon he finds out. Then we find out roughly where it is in Samboromb ón Bay. Once we do that, Ashton can keep track of it with his radar. Then they send in another submarine to sink it.’’
‘‘And if Captain Ashton and his magic radar can’t get into Argentina? Or his radar doesn’t work?’’
‘‘I think it will work,’’ Clete said. ‘‘The problem is getting it into the country.’’
‘‘You know as much about radars as I do,’’ Tony said. ‘‘Zero. On the other hand, the Chief knows all about them. When I told him this nutty idea, he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He says there’s no radar in the world that can locate a ship within a hundred yards.’’
Blood and Honor Page 24