‘‘So what’s the SS guy up to?’’ Clete asked.
Peter looked at him and chuckled.
‘‘Believe it or not, according to von Lutzenberger, the same thing I am. We are. Making safe investments in Argentina. For different people, I’m sure, but the same thing.’’
‘‘Tell me more,’’ Clete said.
‘‘As Mata Hari said to the nice young Spad pilot?’’ Clete chuckled.
‘‘I thought what Mata Hari said to the young Spad pilot was ‘why don’t you let me play with your joystick?’ ’’
‘‘God, that’s terrible!’’ Peter said. ‘‘Your sense of humor is not only juvenile, but vulgar beyond—’’
‘‘So what’s the SS guy up to?’’ Clete asked again.
‘‘I don’t know much—von Lutzenberger didn’t have time to tell me much—but there’s apparently a lot of money on the way here—plus jewelry and negotiable securities. ’’
‘‘How on the way here? And how much is a lot of money?’’
Peter hesitated.
‘‘This is difficult for me, you understand,’’ he said. ‘‘There is a difference in being philosophically opposed to what the Nazis are doing and in giving information to the enemy who will use it in such a manner as to cause the deaths of one’s countrymen, many of whom are not Nazis, and some of whom are as opposed to Hitler as I am.’’
Clete did not reply.
‘‘A replacement for the Reine de la Mer is en route,’’ Peter said, finally. ‘‘A Spanish ship called the Comerciante del Océano Pacífico.’’
‘‘If it makes you feel any better, we already knew that,’’ Clete said.
That’s not the truth. What the OSS knows is that a replacement ship is en route. This is the first I’ve ever heard her name. Why did I lie—and so automatically—to Peter? As a good intelligence officer, wanting to keep his source feeling less guilty? Or as his friend?
‘‘You did?’’ Peter asked, surprised.
Clete ignored the question. ‘‘The money you’re talking about is aboard that ship?’’
Peter nodded. ‘‘He didn’t say—von Lutzenberger didn’t say—how much money. But he did say Goltz told him they already have twenty million of your dollars in Uruguay. That reminds me of something my father told me—’’
‘‘Tell me about the twenty million dollars in Uruguay,’’ Clete interrupted.
‘‘That’s all I know about it,’’ Peter said. ‘‘Why are you interested?’’
‘‘There’s a story going around that for enough money, paid in Uruguay, you can ransom people out of concentration camps.’’
‘‘Where’d you hear that?’’
Clete held up hands, palms outward, to show that he didn’t want to reveal his source.
‘‘If they have twenty million in Uruguay, it could be ransom money.’’
‘‘I don’t believe it.’’
‘‘Keep your ears open.’’
‘‘You’re serious about this, aren’t you?’’ Peter asked, surprised.
‘‘Yes, I am.’’
‘‘I don’t believe it,’’ Peter said. ‘‘Not that they aren’t capable of it morally; they are. Most of the SS would sell their mothers. But I just can’t believe it could be done. The risks would be enormous.’’
‘‘Unless it was being done by some very senior people, or under their authority,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Does this guy Goltz fit those shoes?’’
Peter looked thoughtful. ‘‘Von Lutzenberger told me he’s the liaison between Himmler and Bormann.’’
‘‘I don’t know what—’’
‘‘Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler runs just about everything in Germany connected with the SS, the police, the Gestapo, counterintelligence . . .’’
‘‘Including concentration camps?’’
‘‘Including, of course, concentration camps. Martin Bormann is the Party Chancellor.’’
‘‘What’s that?’’
‘‘He runs the Nazi party. He’s Hitler’s private secretary. I don’t mean he takes shorthand. It’s half a dozen one way and six the other who is second in power to Hitler between them.’’
‘‘I thought Göring was Hitler’s Number Two.’’
‘‘The last time I saw Der Grosse Hermann, he was wearing his uniform as Chief Hunter of the Reich, which included lederhosen—short leather pants—and a Robin Hood hat with a long feather. . . .’’
‘‘You’re kidding!’’
Peter spread his hands to show the length of the feather.
‘‘Not at all. And more makeup than Marlene Dietrich.’’
‘‘In public?’’ Clete asked, not sure if he should believe Peter or not.
‘‘I saw him dressed that way at his estate. Karin Hall. The Commander in Chief of the Luftwaffe has the custom of inviting all pilots who earn anything more than the Iron Cross First Class for a weekend at Karin Hall, where, more often than not, he tries to get them in bed.’’
‘‘He’s homosexual?’’ Clete asked incredulously.
‘‘You really are naive, aren’t you?’’ Peter said. ‘‘Queer as he can be. And he’s also a drug addict.’’
‘‘And Hitler knows this?’’
‘‘Of course, which is why Göring is not Hitler’s Number Two, no matter what is being put out for public consumption. Bormann and Himmler are swine, but they don’t make themselves up like women, and, more important, they don’t take drugs. Whatever else my Führer is, he’s not a fool.’’
‘‘You ever meet Hitler?’’
‘‘Oh, yes. Many times. When he hung my Knight’s Cross on me, he told me I was the future of Germany. Fascinating man. Charming. Spend ten minutes in his presence, and you’d volunteer to follow him into Hell. Which is, of course, what has happened to a lot of people. They have done just that.’’
‘‘The Commander in Chief of the Luftwaffe didn’t find you attractive, Peter? Or did he?’’
Peter smiled. ‘‘I’m sure he did. Why not? I’m a handsome fellow.’’
‘‘Jesus!’’
‘‘My father is on the OKW staff,’’ Peter said, turning serious. ‘‘Making advances to me might have had consequences. Göring, and others like him, generally leave the aristocracy and the officer class alone. They have thousands of others to choose from.’’
‘‘If this guy, Goltz, is connected to Bormann and . . . what was the other one’s name?’’
‘‘Himmler,’’ Peter said, his tone making it clear he found it odd Clete could not remember the name. ‘‘I take your point. Between those two, anything could be arranged in Germany. But why? They all have more money than they know what to do with. What would they do with more money if they had it?’’
‘‘Buy property in Argentina,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Wait a minute. . . .’’
Peter looked at him curiously.
‘‘Why would they want to buy property here?’’ Clete asked. ‘‘Think about it.’’
Peter looked at him without comprehension.
‘‘You tell me,’’ he said, finally.
‘‘Why are you buying property here?’’
‘‘So that something can be salvaged from the ashes,’’ Peter said.
‘‘You just said your Führer is no fool. Maybe he’s figured out he’s already lost the war and is looking for a place to go when it’s over.’’
Peter considered that.
‘‘If he wanted to do that—just for the sake of argument —he’d simply send money to von Lutzenberger and tell him to buy property.’’
‘‘There would be a record of that,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Roosevelt and Churchill called for unconditional surrender at the Casablanca Conference. We would find the records of something like that, declare that it was property of the former German government, and therefore belonged to us.’’
Peter considered that a long moment.
‘‘I’m not saying that’s impossible, but it’s hard to believe. ’’
‘‘I find it h
ard to believe that the Commander in Chief of the Luftwaffe is a drug addict and a faggot who goes around seducing his pilots dressed up like Robin Hood.’’
Peter looked at him again for a long moment, and Clete saw acceptance come into his eyes.
‘‘I’ll see what I can find out.’’
‘‘If I’m right, that means that you and Uncle Humberto will have to be damned careful to make sure what you’re doing here isn’t lumped together with the Nazi property.’’
‘‘I’ll see what I can find out,’’ Peter repeated.
‘‘When are you going back?’’
‘‘Tonight,’’ Peter said. ‘‘Von Lutzenberger said Goltz will probably want to go to Uruguay first thing Monday morning. I told you he wants me to fly him over in the Storch.’’
‘‘When are you coming back?’’
‘‘Maybe the same day. But I’d bet no later than Tuesday. ’’
‘‘I’d like to know who Goltz sees in Uruguay.’’
‘‘I’ll see what I can find out.’’
‘‘I won’t be back in Buenos Aires before Tuesday at the earliest. You want to meet at The Horse—The Fish— Wednesday night?’’
‘‘We better set up a time now,’’ Peter said. ‘‘That would save a telephone call. Ten o’clock? If either of us can’t make it, say by ten-thirty, we’ll try something else.’’
‘‘Ten’s fine with me,’’ Clete said.
‘‘Is a personal question in order?’’ Peter asked.
‘‘Certainly.’’
‘‘Dorotéa?’’
‘‘The idea of having Dorotéa sit beside me on the royal thrones—that is what you’re asking?’’ Peter, smiling, nodded. ‘‘. . . was to convey the idea to our loyal subjects and the upper strata of Argentinian society that we have been engaged for some time, with the blessing of our parents. That will further explain why we will be married here, quietly, in about two weeks.’’
‘‘I heard that much from Alicia, who heard it from her mother,’’ Peter said, but it was a question.
‘‘She’s pregnant, Peter.’’
‘‘In that case, congratulations.’’
‘‘Yes, it was, Peter.’’
‘‘Yes, it was what?’’
‘‘Grossly irresponsible of me.’’
‘‘I didn’t think that.’’
‘‘Yes, you did.’’
‘‘Yes, I did,’’ Peter confessed. ‘‘And it puts me on a hell of a spot, you understand.’’
‘‘Alicia wants to get married?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘I’m in no position to offer anyone any advice.’’
"Or me," Peter said, and put out his hand. ‘‘Good luck, my friend."
XV
[ONE] The Reception Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province 1645 12 April 1943
Clete was standing with Humberto Duarte, holding a cup of coffee, in a circle of seven men. Each of them, he had come to understand, either managed one Frade enterprise or another or had business dealings with it. They had come from all over Argentina to pay their final respects to el Coronel, and of course to meet the new Patrón.
It was something like a one-man reception line, the difference being that those passing through it felt they had either the right or the obligation—he wasn’t sure which— to join the half dozen or so standing around el Patrón for a cup of coffee and four or five minutes of conversation. As one man joined the group, and a maid offered him a tiny white gold-rimmed coffee cup and saucer, another left the group and placed his coffee cup and saucer on the maid’s tray.
There was a steady stream of them all afternoon, either employees of what Clete had started to think of as El Coronel Incorporated, or representatives of businesses that bought from, or sold to, one El Coronel Inc. subsidiary or another.
Humberto, for example, introduced him not only to the man who ran the San Bosco vineyards in Córdoba, but the men who sold San Bosco the wine bottles; the corks that sealed San Bosco’s bottles; and the bottle labels—this one also sold San Bosco the cases in which the wine bottles were packed. One man told him his father had begun carting San Bosco wine with horse-drawn wagons. And a somewhat effete gentleman told him that with the exception of Buenos Aires Province, he handled distribution of San Bosco products throughout the country.
The same thing was true of the people connected with Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo itself, and with the other estancias and enterprises of El Coronel Inc. around the country. In some place called Bariloche—he had never previously heard of it—he learned El Coronel Inc. owned both a trout farm and a dairy farm, which also manufactured cheese. He found the trout farm fascinating, for he had previously believed the only way to harvest trout was by standing in a stream with a fly-casting rod.
Several people blurted that they had not known that el Coronel had a son. Yet there was an almost universal surprised relief that el Patrón spoke Spanish. Which meant, of course, that everyone knew that he was a norteamericano. He wondered if any of them had heard the rumors that el Coronel was killed by the Germans because his son was an American OSS agent. If anyone had, no one was tactless enough, or careless enough, to make reference to it.
Humberto stood at his side throughout the ordeal. Claudia had left an hour after the requiem mass with what Clete thought of as the Military Delegation . . . but only after telling him what was expected of him in ‘‘receiving’’ the managers and the businesspeople. Humberto, she went on to explain, would suggest how to deal with ‘‘the people in Buenos Aires’’—he inferred she meant lawyers and bankers and their ilk. He would have to start doing that no later than Wednesday.
He had only a rare glimpse of Dorotéa. She and her mother mingled in the reception with the wives of the men who spoke to Clete. But he didn’t have a chance to talk to her. Earlier he had sent Little Henry off riding with the good-looking kid—whose name, he learned, was Gustavo, which almost certainly confirmed that Gustavo was German. He firmly admonished Gustavo to put Little Henry on a horse he would have minimal chance of falling from. He didn’t see Henry Mallín, and wondered if this was because Dorotéa’s father didn’t want to see Cletus H. Frade, or whether he was sleeping off the effects of the night before.
Clete sensed that Antonio had walked up behind him.
‘‘Señor, your guests are leaving,’’ Antonio said.
‘‘Excuse me, gentlemen, please,’’ Clete said, and placed his coffee cup on the maid’s tray.
When Clete reached them, the Mallín family was already on the verandah, their luggage stacked around them, waiting for someone to bring their car. Little Henry, Clete noticed, showed no signs of a fall from a horse. Dorotéa had changed from the black suit she had worn all day into a skirt and blouse.
‘‘Thank you for coming, Henry,’’ Clete said.
‘‘So kind of you to have us,’’ Mallín replied with a smile that would freeze a West Texas water hole in the middle of August.
‘‘I suppose we’ll see you very soon, Cletus,’’ Pamela said. ‘‘We really have no time at all, do we?’’
‘‘I’m going into the city either Tuesday or Wednesday,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Claudia said she’d help with things out here.’’
‘‘That’s my responsibility—mother of the bride—but it was sweet of you to think of asking her, and I will need her.’’
‘‘Thank you for the ride, Clete,’’ Little Henry said.
‘‘What ride?’’ Henry Mallín asked.
‘‘Clete sent Henry riding with one of his gauchos,’’ Pamela replied. ‘‘Wasn’t that nice of him?’’
Henry did not reply.
Rudolpho pulled up before the verandah in the Mallíns’ Rolls-Royce drophead coupe, stepped out, and started to load the luggage in the trunk.
‘‘Thank you for my ring, Cletus,’’ Dorotéa said, and with her father watching in evident discomfort, kissed him on the lips with slightly less passion than she might have kissed Litt
le Henry.
Henry Mallín walked around the front of the car. Clete went to the passenger side with Dorotéa, ushered Little Henry into the backseat, and waited for an opportunity to kiss Dorotéa again. It did not present itself. She slumped against the seat and smiled at him demurely.
‘‘Oh, damn,’’ she said. ‘‘I think I left my compact on the roof!’’
‘‘Great!’’ her father said.
Clete surveyed the roof. Dorotéa moved forward on her seat to see if he could locate the compact. This movement placed her close to Clete’s midsection in such a way that her body concealed the movement of her hand, which she used to possessively squeeze Clete’s reproductive apparatus.
‘‘It’s not here!’’ Clete cried, referring to Dorotéa’s compact.
‘‘Well, perhaps I was mistaken,’’ Dorotéa said, sliding back onto the seat. From there she smiled demurely at Clete again, waved her fingers at him, and admonished him to ‘‘be a good boy, Cletus.’’
‘‘Goddamn,’’ Clete blurted, ‘‘you’re really something!’’
‘‘Would you please close the door?’’ Henry Mallín asked impatiently.
Clete watched the Rolls-Royce until it was out of sight, then turned to reenter the house.
‘‘Excuse me, Señor Frade,’’ a short, muscular man of about forty asked. ‘‘Do you remember me? Capitán Delgano? ’’
Oh, yeah, I remember you, you sonofabitch! You were my father’s pilot, and he trusted you, and you were all the time working for Martín and the goddamned BIS!
‘‘I remember you,’’ Clete said.
‘‘I wonder if I might have a moment of your time, Señor Frade?’’
‘‘I can’t think of a thing we might have to say to one another, Capitán,’’ Clete said coldly.
There was hurt in Delgano’s large dark eyes.
‘‘I would prefer to talk with you somewhere we would be less likely to be overheard,’’ he said, and gestured toward the English garden.
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