“Claudia,” Dorotea announced, “says to tell you she’s not going to the Jockey Club if you’re drunk.”
“Can you get that in writing?” Clete asked.
“Cletus, it was your idea to show Willi and Elsa a good time,” Dorotea argued.
“And so it was,” he said, after a moment. “Grandfather, sorry, but that’s your last Sazerac.”
“The hell it is,” the old man said. “But you, my dear, may assure Señora Carzino-Cormano that whenever we get wherever we’re going, Cletus will comport himself as a gentleman.”
“That’ll be a first,” Dorotea said. “But I’ll tell her.”
She and Alicia left the library.
“Where did she say we’re going?” the old man asked.
“To the Jockey Club.”
“Isn’t that way the hell out in San Izzie-something?”
“There’s another one in San Isidro,” Clete said. “The one we’re going to is right across the street.”
[SIX]
The Hipódromo de Palermo was in fact right across Avenida Libertador and they could have walked there in three or four minutes.
But that would be too damn simple, Clete thought, equally annoyed and amused.
What had happened, instead, was that, forty-five minutes later, everyone more or less followed instructions to assemble in the basement. There, under Señora Carzino-Cormano’s strict direction, they were loaded into automobiles according to her sense of protocol.
She put Cletus Marcus Howell and Martha Williamson Howell in the backseat of her Rolls-Royce. Cletus Frade, following her signals, got in the front beside her chauffeur. She installed Peter von Wachtstein and Wilhelm von Dattenberg in the front seat of Clete’s Horch, and Doña Dorotea, Doña Alicia, and Elsa von Wachtstein in the backseat. Beth and Marjorie Howell were seated last, in front of them, on jump seats unfolded from the floor.
Clete’s 1941 Ford station wagon held the bodyguards.
When she was satisfied, she got in the backseat of her Rolls-Royce with the old man. There she stood—looking not unlike General George S. Patton urging his armored columns onward to the Rhine—and signaled to the driver of the station wagon to get the show on the road.
The convoy went up the ramp of the garage, through the enormous gates, and onto Avenida Libertador. Then it went around the block, which was not as simple as that sounded, as the block held both of the Ejército Argentino’s National Polo Fields, the stables to house the horses therefore, and other buildings.
Finally they returned to Avenida Libertador and rolled up to the cast-iron gates of the Jockey Club. The gates opened as they arrived. Once inside the grounds, they drove to the members’ door of the Jockey Club.
The bodyguards got quickly out of the station wagon, half of them eyeing the people on the wide steps warily, and the other half opening the doors of the Horch and the Rolls-Royce.
Everybody went into the Jockey Club and then up a wide flight of stairs to the second-floor foyer, where they were greeted by the maître d’hotel of the dining room.
“Señora Carzino-Cormano, welcome!” he announced. “Your table is of course ready. But perhaps a glass of champagne before you go in?”
“Splendid idea,” Cletus Marcus Howell answered for her. “Never turn down a glass of champagne is my motto.”
She glowered at him.
“I don’t believe I know this gentleman,” the maître d’hotel said.
“Cletus Marcus Howell,” the old man announced. “Of New Orleans, Louisiana, USA.” He pointed at Clete. “I’m his grandfather.”
“An honor, sir,” the maître d’hotel said.
“Raul, I believe we’ll have the champagne at the table,” Doña Claudia ordered.
The maître d’hotel led Claudia—who had taken the old man’s arm and was leading him—through double doors into a large, glass-walled room overlooking the racetrack. A long table had been set up formally, complete with cards indicating who should sit where.
Doña Claudia led the old man to one end of the table, pointed to the card at the head of the table, and said, “Well, here I am. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were down there, near the other end.”
“Not a problem, dear lady,” the old man said. “Just so it’s not far from the bubbly.”
When he got to the far end of the table, he saw that Clete was seated at the head, with the submarine captain on one side of him and the other Frau von Wachtstein on the other. He was seated next to the submarine captain—he wasn’t sure if he believed that or not, but he couldn’t think of his name beyond von-Something—which meant that neither of them would be able to watch what was going on on the track without having to look over their shoulders.
Clete had said that the submarine captain was not the one Martha had told him Beth fancied herself in love with. Maybe that was so. Beth was paying absolutely no intention to Captain von-Something, and he seemed to be fascinated with the other Frau von Wachtstein.
Why can I remember that von, but not the other?
He found that seated next to him was the von Wachtstein woman, an Argentine beauty, who was married to the German pilot Clete had broken out of Fort Hunt. Alex Graham had told him the pilot’s father had been executed—brutally—for his role in trying to blow up Hitler, so it was doubtful the son was a Nazi. At least not anymore.
From where he was sitting, he could see a row of oil portraits of ornately uniformed Argentine men hanging on the wall.
The uniforms those guys are wearing make them look like characters in an operetta.
And they all look like Nazis.
“What is that, Cletus?” the old man asked. “The local version of the post office wall with pictures of J. Edgar Hoover’s ten-most-wanted men?”
Clete smiled.
“Those are the founders of the Jockey Club,” Clete said. “The handsome one, third from this end, is my grandfather.”
“He’s dead, right?”
Clete nodded. “Before I was born.”
“Then he was your grandfather. Past tense. So why don’t you do something nice for your living grandfather and scare up a waiter with the champagne the Queen promised me?”
Elsa von Wachtstein giggled.
Clete looked at her.
“Sorry,” she said.
“What for? The whole idea of this was to make you and Willi smile.”
“I’m not sure if I want to smile or cry,” she said. “Your grandfather is just like my father. My father in happier times.”
“Smile, please,” Clete said.
“I’m a little numb with all this,” Elsa said. “Here, it’s as if there never was a war. Look at this table. The hors d’oeuvres alone would feed a family for a week in Germany. There must be a half kilo of cream in that bowl.”
“There never was a war here, Elsa,” Frade said. He met von Dattenberg’s eyes. “Except for the one people like Willi and me brought here. And now people like Willi and me are trying to wind that one down.”
Von Dattenberg nodded, just perceptibly.
“Let me get my grandfather his champagne,” Clete said, and looked around for a waiter.
—
Clete didn’t take any of the champagne when it was served, and he turned over the three empty wineglasses placed before him to indicate he also wished not to be served any of the grape.
He didn’t know why, but somehow he knew that he should get and stay completely sober.
The first thing he thought was that his total sobriety would pour a little oil on the troubled waters between him and Claudia.
And between me and Martha.
Or maybe it’s because I know I’m taking off for Berlin at nine tonight.
I don’t believe that pilots have to go off the sauce twenty-four hours before takeoff, but they should turn off the alcohol valve eight hours before starting the engines.
He had looked down the table when he had that thought. He saw Hansel’s glasses were also turned over.
Well, eithe
r ol’ Hansel believes that twenty-four-hour business, or Alicia got to him.
Or he saw that I’m not drinking.
Or it may be that I don’t want to make Elsa uncomfortable.
Or maybe because, if I’m really sober, I may pick up something from what von Dattenberg says, or how he acts. I’m still not sure if I trust him with that honor of the officer corps bullshit.
Or maybe I’m just trusting my intuition.
Whatever the reason, get thee behind me, Demon Rum!
—
Clete had, almost two hours later, just about finished his postre—a small mountain of strawberries just about concealed by whipped cream—and was on the cusp of deciding that a little cognac—one only—to top off the meal would not see him qualify as a flying drunk when the maître d’hotel bent over him and whispered in his ear.
“Don Cletus, Father Welner asks if you can have a word with him.”
“Send him in.”
“He asks that you join him in the foyer, Don Cletus.”
What the hell does he want?
Why didn’t he come in?
“Okay.”
He turned to Elsa.
“Excuse me, please. I’ll be back in a moment.”
—
The priest was standing to one side of the foyer. On either side of him were men in civilian clothing. Both of them Clete recognized as agents of Martín’s Bureau of Internal Security. One of them held, as Enrico so often did, a Model 11 Remington twelve-bore riot gun against the seam of his trousers; it was, Clete realized, a surprisingly effective way of hiding a shotgun. The other BIS agent, making no effort to conceal it, held a Thompson submachine gun cradled in his arms.
What the hell is going on?
Where the hell is Enrico?
“You can let Father Welner go,” Clete greeted them. “I’ll vouch for him.”
No one was amused.
“This way, please, Don Cletus,” one of them said, and indicated a door opening off the foyer.
Martín was inside a small room apparently used as someone’s—maybe the maître d’?—office. Martín was in uniform, which was unusual, and far more unusual than that, he was armed. A Ballester-Molina .45 ACP semiautomatic pistol was in a shoulder holster.
“Sorry to interrupt your lunch,” Martín said.
“Bernardo, what’s with all the guns?” Clete asked.
“Clete, where’s the Storch?”
“At Jorge Frade. Why?”
“God, I hope you didn’t drink your lunch,” Martín said. “Have you?”
Jesus Christ! I knew I should be sober, but what the hell is this all about?
“What’s all this sudden interest in my sobriety and airplane?”
“They’ve put the plan to assassinate el Coronel Juan Perón into play,” Martín announced.
“Who’s ‘they,’ and how do you know?”
“I told him, Cletus,” Father Welner said.
“Who told you?”
“I can’t tell you that,” the priest said.
“I have to take it on faith, right?”
“Yes, you do, remembering that I’m a priest.”
“How do you know? I mean, how do you know it’s not just the boys sitting around the Circulo Militar, or the Officers’ Casino at Campo de Mayo, drinking too many martinis?”
“Because Phase A of the outline calls for the assassination of General Martín,” the priest said.
“That’s what all the guns are for? You don’t really think they’re going to come into the Jockey Club and try to whack Bernardo, do you?”
“Whack?” the priest asked.
“Shoot, kill, assassinate,” Clete said, somewhat impatiently.
“Phase A called for the assassination of Bernardo as he left his home to try to stop this,” Father Welner said. “They regard him as their greatest obstacle to carrying this out.”
“Well, don’t go home, Bernardo,” Frade said.
“I warned him,” the priest said.
“And now what?”
“It was necessary to take the lives of three of the plotters,” Martín said. “Two other men have been taken to Cosme Argerich. They are not expected to live.”
And then he clarified, “The Central Military Hospital Dr. Cosme Argerich.”
“I know what it is, Bernardo,” Frade said softly. “You put me in there the night they tried to whack me and killed Enrico’s sister.”
“That’s right. I’d forgotten.”
What I think it is, General, is that for the first time in your life you’ve been on the receiving end of someone shooting at you. Before this, it was other people getting shot at.
Don’t be self-righteous, Cletus, Old Veteran: Remember your first time. When you got back to Fighter One and saw all those holes in your Wildcat, you threw up.
“You got five of them?”
Martín nodded.
Which means this is the real thing.
“Major Habanzo and Captain Garcia,” Martín said, pointing in the general direction of his men in the foyer, “managed to get there before . . . the other people did.”
They call them assassins, Bernardo.
Not “plotters” or “other people.”
Then he said it out loud: “The term is ‘assassins,’ General.”
Martín nodded.
“Well, what are you going to do now?” Clete asked.
“We have to get el Coronel Perón off Isla Martín García,” Martín said. “And to a place of safety. We need your help to do that.”
“Phase B of the outline is already under way,” Father Welner said.
“What’s Phase B?” Clete asked.
“A company of the Horse Rifles—”
“The what?” Clete asked incredulously.
“Officially,” Martín said, “the Eighth Cavalry. It’s known as General Necochea’s Own Horse Rifles.”
“—is en route by boat from La Plata to the island,” the priest finished.
Clete said what he was thinking.
“That’s a long trip. Are they bringing their horses?”
The sarcasm went over Martín’s head.
“They knew my men were keeping an eye on the logical places to mount an operation like that,” Martín said. “So they left from La Plata, which I was not watching.”
“They intend to try to convince the men of the First Infantry Regiment, who are guarding el Coronel, that they are far outnumbered and resistance would be futile,” the priest said. “If they don’t give up—and the Patricios have a proud tradition and may resist however untenable their position . . .”
Heroism, and the glory that comes with it, sounds easy to people who’ve never been shot at.
“And the first shots of the civil war will have been fired,” Bernardo said. “We have to prevent that.”
He’s probably right.
Hell, he is right.
“How do you plan to do that?”
“You fly us to the island,” Martín said. “We pick up el Coronel and fly him to Jorge Frade, where a platoon of the Patricios will be waiting for us. We then take el Coronel Perón to the Central Military Hospital, where he will be safe until this mess can be sorted out.”
Frade exhaled audibly.
“Bernardo, I hate . . . I really hate . . . to rain on your parade. But there are so many holes in that plan that I hardly know where to begin.”
“Begin,” Martín said.
Frade shook his head in resignation.
“Okay. Let’s start with President Farrell telling me to keep my nose out of this.”
“That no longer applies, Cletus,” Father Welner said.
“It doesn’t? Does General Farrell know that?”
“We came here from the Casa Rosada,” Welner said. “His message is now: ‘Sorry that you have to get involved, but I can see no other alternative.’”
I’m not sure I’d believe Martín telling me that; he’s really shaken up.
But I don’t think even t
he devious Jesuit would come up with that as an outright lie.
Clete looked at his watch.
“Problem two,” he said. “The reason I have not been drinking is that I take off for Europe at nine. That means I have to be at Jorge Frade at seven. That’s not enough time—”
“For God’s sake, Cletus!” Martín said. “Try to understand that we’re preventing a civil war—”
“And the loss of life that that means,” the priest interjected.
“—and that’s far more important than you flying anywhere,” Martín picked up. “You’re not SAA’s only pilot.”
“I’m the only one skilled at bringing back all those passengers traveling on Vatican passports,” Frade replied. “Let’s not forget that, Father.”
“You’re going to have to do this, my son,” the priest said. “Among other things, it’s your Christian duty to your godfather.”
Oh, Jesus H. Christ!
“How do you figure that?”
“For one thing, Juan Domingo loves you,” Welner replied. “If you don’t do this, he will be killed. And others will die, not only on Isla Martín García today, but all over this country in the civil war that will follow. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of innocent people.”
Maybe he’s right.
“Bernardo said before,” Clete replied, “something about me flying ‘us’ to this goddamned island. Who’s ‘us’?”
“Father Welner and me,” Martín said.
“What’s Welner going to do on the island?”
“Several things,” Martín said. “For one, if he’s there—unless the both of you are there—el Coronel probably can’t be disabused of his suspicions that I’m party to the assassination. If he still believes that, he’ll refuse to get in the Storch with you.”
“He can’t anyway—you can get only three people in the Storch. Or are you planning to stay on the island?”
“I will stay there,” Welner said. “The idea is that after you have taken Juan Domingo off the island—before the Horse Rifles arrive—I can talk the Patricios out of resisting the Horse Rifles, and permit them to land. And once they have landed, with God’s help, I can talk whoever’s commanding the Horse Rifles into going back to La Plata.”
That’d work. Neither the Patricios nor the Horse Rifles is going to shoot a priest.
Empire and Honor Page 24