The Chief was Chief Radioman Oscar J. Schultz, USN, formerly of the USS Alfred Thomas, DD-107. Chief Schultz volunteered for OSS service when he learned during a ‘‘Courtesy Call’’ of his ship to Buenos Aires that the team’s radioman, Sergeant David Ettinger, couldn’t handle all that had to be done by himself.
‘‘I think he’s wrong. If he’s right, I’ll go out and find it with one of the Piper Cubs.’’
‘‘If they were going to send us out to light it up again, you’d tell me, right?’’
‘‘That’s not going to happen. But—if I can figure some way to get the C-45 into the country—we’ll probably have to take pictures of it.’’
"Don’t bust your ass trying to get that C-45 into the country,’’ Tony said. ‘‘One trip like the last one is enough for me, thank you. And what is this picture-taking bullshit all about, anyway?’’
‘‘The idea, I think, is that if we have photographs of the ship actually supplying a submarine, then when we take it out—either with another sub, or with bombers, whatever— and the Portuguese or the Spanish start screaming, they can show them the pictures, and say, ‘Yeah, we sank it. This is why, fuck you.’ ’’
‘‘Let me get this straight. What you’re saying is that all we, our team, has to do is find the new ship, take pictures of it supplying a submarine, and Ashton and his team will do everything else.’’
‘‘They will use our radio to communicate with the sub,’’ Clete said. ‘‘But yeah, until something else comes up, and it probably will, that’s about it. What I’m supposed to do is try to tilt Argentina—influence the people who will run Argentina after the coup—toward the United States. Or at least keep them from tilting the other way. If I don’t do something stupid, I don’t think that will get me in serious trouble. I don’t intend to blow up the Casa Rosada, Tony.’’ (The Casa Rosada—‘‘The Pink House,’’ so-called because of its color—is Argentina’s seat of government.)
‘‘That’s all?’’ Tony asked in disbelief.
‘‘That’s it.’’
‘‘What’s my relationship to Commander Whatsisname?’’
‘‘None. He knows who you are, of course. But I am still in command of our team.’’
‘‘Ettinger and the Chief, too?’’
Christ, I didn’t think to ask Graham about the Chief. The Chief is assigned to the Office of the Naval Attaché, and Delojo’s liable to assume he belongs to him. And Graham didn’t say anything. And Graham avoided the question when I asked him about my relationship with Delojo. Damn!
‘‘Until I hear otherwise, the Chief is part of our team. We need him to run the radio station. Ettinger can’t run it by himself.’’
‘‘Where do you get your orders? From Delojo? Doesn’t a commander outrank a major?’’
Absolutely. Is that why Graham avoided my question, because I should have understood that? But he didn’t answer the question. So fuck him, until it’s spelled out, I do not take my orders from Delojo.
‘‘That doesn’t apply here,’’ Clete said. ‘‘I get my orders from Graham.’’
‘‘Jesus, you had me worried there for a minute.’’
‘‘Don’t rub it in his face, but if he starts something you don’t like, tell me, and I’ll stop it. I don’t think it will happen. When he gets here, I’ll make sure he understands that you, Ettinger, and the Chief work for me.’’
"Good."
‘‘How are they, by the way? I went looking for Dave, but he wasn’t home.’’
‘‘He’s at the radio station. They’re fine. I go out there every couple of days—when I’m not inventorying the PX, or some other bullshit—and bring them cigarettes, stuff from the PX, et cetera, and their mail.’’
‘‘They stay out there?’’
‘‘The Chief does. Ettinger spends most of his time in Buenos Aires. The estancia is a good place for us to meet.’’
‘‘I’m driving out there first thing in the morning. I’ll come out to the station to see you and Ettinger and the Chief, but I don’t want either you or Ettinger to come to the house. They’re having another funeral service for my father, for the people on the estancia. And a lot of people will be out there that I don’t want to see you and start wondering.’’
‘‘Right. These people that are going to be out there? G.O.U.?"
"You know about the G.O.U.?"
Tony nodded.
‘‘Yeah, Leibermann told me. They’re about to overthrow the government.’’
‘‘Who told you?’’
‘‘Milt Leibermann. They call him the Legal Attaché, but what he really is is the FBI guy. And he knows who we really work for. And he wants to talk to you, too, just as soon as possible.’’
‘‘Oh, Christ, Tony!’’
‘‘Something wrong?’’
‘‘I have specific orders about that. I am, which means you are, to have as little contact, preferably none, with the FBI.’’
‘‘Why not?’’
‘‘Wild Bill Donovan and J. Edgar Hoover don’t like each other.’’
‘‘Come on, it has to be more than that.’’
‘‘Congress gave Hoover—the FBI—authority to conduct intelligence and counterintelligence operations in the Western Hemisphere. Hoover believes that includes covert activities —what we did, in other words. But the President gave the OSS responsibility, worldwide, for intelligence, counterintelligence, and special operations, which means open and covert sabotage, espionage, everything. Since South America is included in everybody’s definition of the wide world, Donovan thinks Hoover’s walking on his grass here. And vice versa. Graham was serious about this. Stay away from the FBI guy.’’
‘‘He’s a nice guy, Clete.’’
‘‘Stay away from him, Tony. That’s an order.’’
‘‘Yes, Sir.’’ Tony shrugged. ‘‘But I really think you ought to see him, Clete.’’
‘‘Maybe later.’’
‘‘I told him I’d try to get you to meet him in the Café Colón at half past nine,’’ Tony said, uneasily. ‘‘He said he’ll be there.’’
‘‘You mean tonight?’’ Clete asked incredulously. ‘‘What gave you the idea you have the authority to make appointments for me?’’
‘‘I thought you wouldn’t mind, Clete.’’
‘‘Well, I goddamned well do!’’
‘‘OK,’’ Tony said, chastened and chagrined. ‘‘It won’t happen again, Clete.’’
Damn! There’s already enough bad blood between the FBI and the OSS. If I don’t show up to meet this guy, it will get worse.
‘‘Where the hell is the—what did you say, Café Colón?’’
‘‘Café Colón,’’ Tony confirmed. ‘‘Right behind the Opera.17There’s a basement. He said he would wait for you there.’’
‘‘How’s he going to recognize me?’’ Clete wondered aloud, annoyed.
‘‘He’s got a picture of you.’’
‘‘You gave a him a picture of me?’’ Clete asked incredulously.
‘‘He had one. He showed it to me. It shows you gettingout of a cab at the National Institutes of Health.’’
‘‘Jesus Christ! The FBI’s running around taking pictures of people in the OSS in Washington?’’
Tony shrugged.
‘‘I guess so. He had your picture.’’
‘‘I’m going to meet this guy . . . what did you say his name was?’’ Clete said.
‘‘Leibermann.’’
‘‘I am going to meet Mr. Leibermann of the FBI, and as politely as possible let him know I am not interested in making new friends. And you don’t ever do something like this again, OK?’’
Tony nodded, accepting the rebuke, then asked, ‘‘You see the SS guy at your uncle’s house?’’
Clete shook his head, ‘‘no.’’
‘‘Bird fucking colonel of the SS. Fancy black uniform, with skulls on the collar. I can’t believe they had the balls to show up there.’’
‘‘If they
didn’t show up, it might look like they had something to do with my father’s murder,’’ Clete said. ‘‘And speaking of wearing that, you look like a recruiting poster. But wearing that Silver Star isn’t too smart. What are you going to say if somebody asks you what you got it for?’’
‘‘I thought about that. I wore it for your father. If it hadn’t been for him, I wouldn’t be around to wear it. And I figure they took him out because of how I got it, what we did. And I figured nobody here knows what the fuck it is anyway. The Argentines give out medals for not missing Mass three months running.’’
Clete chuckled.
‘‘What are you going to do about what happened to your father?’’ Tony asked.
‘‘What do you mean by that?’’
‘‘Well, I figure it was either this SS guy or the Military Attaché, Grüner, who ordered your father killed. Your friend von Wachtstein probably knows and would tell you."
"So?"
‘‘You know that plastic explosive we got in Uruguay and never used? I used a little bit of it, just to see what it would do. A piece about this big, Clete’’—he held up his fist, thumb extended—‘‘rigged by somebody who knew how . . .’’
Jesus Christ, he’s serious!
‘‘Forget it, Tony!’’
‘‘. . . say in a telephone . . .’’
‘‘Hey, I said no.’’
‘‘. . . would blow his fucking brains out his other ear.’’
Clete shook his head back and forth.
‘‘Your father was a good guy, Clete. He saved my life. They shouldn’t be allowed to get away with what they did to him.’’
‘‘Thank you, Tony, but no. And I mean that. I mean thank you, and I mean no. Not now, anyway.’’
‘‘Let me know if you change your mind,’’ Tony said. ‘‘I consider it a matter of honor.’’
Clete glanced at Enrico and thought that Enrico would think Tony had both a splendid idea and the proper attitude concerning revenge.
There was a discreet knock at the door, followed immediately by the appearance of Antonio.
‘‘Pardon me, Señor. A Señorita Mallín has called. I have asked her to wait in the reception while I saw whether or not you were at home.’’
‘‘Oh, ho!’’ Tony said, smiling and winking at Clete. He glanced at his watch. ‘‘I’ve got to get out of here anyway. And let the BIS guys go home to their wives and kiddies.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘The BIS has been following me around ever since you got here. You didn’t notice the Ford Anglia following us over here from Alvear?’’
Clete shook his head ‘‘no’’ and looked at Enrico.
‘‘Yeah, well, trust me, there was. And they’re parked across the street now.’’
‘‘Get out of here, Tony,’’ Clete ordered. ‘‘And you too, Enrico.’’
‘‘I will change out of my uniform for the last time,’’ Enrico said, rising to his feet. ‘‘After I put el Teniente into a taxi.’’
‘‘Please show Señorita Mallín up, Antonio,’’ Clete said.
[THREE]
The door opened, and the No-Longer-Virgin Princess came in. She was now wearing a tweed skirt and a powder-blue sweater.
She looks like the Tulane homecoming queen. Nicer. The time I dated the homecoming queen, she turned out to be a bitch.
My God, she’s beautiful!
‘‘You didn’t call me,’’ she accused.
"I ... uh ..."
‘‘What have you been doing?’’ Dorotéa demanded, and then, noticing the beer bottles and the wine cooler full of iced beer, answered her own question. ‘‘You’ve been swilling beer!’’
‘‘Guilty,’’ he said.
‘‘I have been waiting by the telephone for hours!’’
‘‘I . . . uh . . . didn’t think I should call,’’ he said. ‘‘Your father—’’
‘‘Didn’t what I told you mean anything to you?’’ Dorot éa asked, now closer to tears than an expression of shocked indignation.
‘‘Jesus Christ, Princess,’’ Clete said. It came out a moan.
She looked into his eyes for a long moment and then laughed.
‘‘If you’re afraid to just call me because of Daddy, what are you going to do about telling him?’’
‘‘I don’t know,’’ he confessed. ‘‘How did you get away?’’
‘‘Mother helped,’’ she said. ‘‘I started to cry when Daddy called your uncle Humberto and said we wouldn’t be going out to Estancia Santa Catalina after all for the mass for your father.’’
‘‘You were going to Santa Catalina?’’
With Ramírez, Rawson, and most of the G.O.U. there? What the hell is that all about? How many people did Claudia say are going to be there, forty? Maybe some of them have nothing to do with the G.O.U.; they’ll be there to make it look like all that’s going on are people visiting Claudia out of sympathy.
‘‘Were going. Henry couldn’t wait to tell Daddy he’d seen you kissing my fingers.’’
‘‘Jesus!’’
‘‘I’m supposed to be at the movies. There’s a new Bing Crosby and Bob Hope flick—Road to Morocco—at the Belgrano. It’s supposed to cheer me up.’’
‘‘Oh.’’
‘‘What are we going to do, Cletus?’’
‘‘What are we going to do about what?’’
‘‘What do you think?’’ Dorotéa asked, exasperated.
‘‘What are my options?’’
‘‘You bastard!’’
‘‘Would you like me to get down on my knees?’’
‘‘That would be nice,’’ she said.
‘‘Jesus, I almost forgot,’’ he said.
‘‘Forgot what?’’
He went into the bathroom. After a moment, curiosity got the better of her and she followed him. He was rooting around in his toilet kit.
‘‘What on earth are you doing?’’ Dorotéa demanded.
He handed her a ring. She looked at it dubiously.
‘‘What’s this?’’
‘‘It’s my mother’s,’’ Clete said. ‘‘My grandfather gave it to me. Her high-school ring. I . . . uh . . . when he gave it to me, I thought maybe you’d like to have it.’’
‘‘It’s beautiful,’’ she said, not very convincingly. ‘‘It looks Catholic.’’
‘‘Yeah. Sacred Heart Convent in New Orleans. About as Catholic as you can get. All the nice girls in New Orleans go to Sacred Heart.’’
‘‘I thought your mother was Church of England.’’
‘‘She was Episcopalian. More or less the same thing. She converted to Catholicism when she married my father.’’
And it killed her.
‘‘I want to be married in the Anglican Church. I want our baby to be raised as an Anglican.’’
‘‘I haven’t even asked you to marry me yet.’’
She slipped the ring on her finger.
‘‘It fits,’’ she said. ‘‘And it was your mother’s. I’ll never take it off.’’ She immediately had second thoughts, and took it off. ‘‘After you talk to Daddy. After that, I’ll never take it off. I don’t want to get him hysterical before you talk.’’
She pulled her sweater up and put the ring into her white brassiere, which was all she had on under the sweater. Cletus found the act excruciatingly erotic.
‘‘Until then, I’ll keep it next to my heart,’’ she said, and looked at him, read his mind, and announced: ‘‘They’re swelling.’’
‘‘Really?’’
‘‘They’re swelling, and they’re tender. Would you like to see?’’
‘‘Christ!’’
‘‘Not until you’ve proposed properly,’’ she said.
‘‘You first,’’ Clete said.
‘‘Me propose?’’
‘‘Show me first,’’ he said.
‘‘You are really a very wicked man,’’ Dorotéa said. ‘‘My father’s probably right about you.’’
&n
bsp; Then, her eyes locked on his, she very deliberately pulled the sweater over her head, dropped it onto the floor, then reached behind her back and unfastened her brassiere.
The telephone on the bedside table rang.
‘‘Who the hell can that be?’’ Dorotéa snapped. ‘‘Don’t answer it, Cletus!’’
She was lying naked on top of him, with her face on his chest. When she spoke, he could feel the warmth of her breath.
Antonio maybe doesn’t know exactly what’s going on up here, but he knows I don’t want to be disturbed. That call is probably important.
He picked up the telephone.
‘‘A gentleman insists on speaking with you, Señor Frade,’’ Antonio said. ‘‘He says he’s from ‘Texas A and M.’ ’’
From the way Antonio pronounced the phrase, it was clear that he had no idea what it was.
‘‘Put him through,’’ Clete ordered. Dorotéa snorted.
‘‘Just checking in,’’ Commander Delojo said. ‘‘I’m— temporarily—at the Plaza Hotel. I’d hoped we could get together soon.’’
‘‘Not before Tuesday or Wednesday, I’m afraid. I’ll get word to you through our friend.’’
‘‘Fine,’’ Delojo said. ‘‘Good to hear your voice.’’
The line went dead.
‘‘I hope that was important,’’ Dorotéa said.
‘‘Yes, it was.’’
‘‘More important than us? Wouldn’t it have waited?’’
She lowered her head and nipped him on the nipple, then suddenly pushed herself off him.
‘‘Oh, my God!’’ Dorotéa cried. ‘‘What time is it? How long have we been here?’’
‘‘Not nearly long enough.’’
‘‘By now Daddy will have called the Belgrano, found out what time the movie was over, and be sitting by the front door with his watch in his hand.’’
‘‘He’s going to have to find out sooner or later that we’ve been up to more than finger kissing. Preferably sooner, under the circumstances.’’
‘‘Not today, thank you,’’ she said, and pushed herself off him and slipped out of bed.
She bent over to reclaim the clothing strewn all over the floor and trotted naked into the bathroom.
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