“I’m glad to hear that,” Frade said. “I have very strong feelings about buying people. Philosophical and practical. The people who back us must be concerned with the good of Argentina, not their own pocketbooks.”
“It’s easy for you to say that, Jorge, if you will forgive me.”
“I will forgive you, Willy,” Frade said. “If you will permit me to remind you that the practical reason why I am loath to turn an honorable Army officer into a mercenary—and that’s the word to describe someone who fights for money and not for principle, mercenary—is that their allegiance switches to those who are willing to pay the most.”
“All he’s concerned about is his future, Jorge,” Wattersly interjected.
“I’m concerned with the future of Argentina, Edmundo,” Frade said. “With that in mind, I suggest you two visit el Coronel López and tell him to search his conscience. If he wants to join us, fine. If he does not, fine. And when the time comes, if López supports us, or does not betray us to Castilló’s people, we will see that he is promoted to general. An honorable man deserves promotion. Of course, you won’t tell him that.”
“And if he receives his promotion, we could count on his continued loyalty afterward, right?” Wattersly said.
“That thought has run through my mind,” Frade admitted.
“Willy?” Wattersly asked.
“All right,” el Coronel Kleber agreed. “Jorge’s probably right.”
Kleber always gives in at the end, Frade thought. Is that because I am always right? Or because Willy is a weak man?
“We’ve been at this long enough,” Frade said. “I think we should at least break for a coffee.”
VIII
[ONE]
23 Calle Arcos
Belgrano, Buenos Aires
1025 25 November 1942
Clete Frade was at the moment very much aware that his case of runaway carnal appetite was not a temporary anomaly brought about by a long period of enforced celibacy, a very long airplane ride, a good deal of alcohol, and the to-be-expected nervous excitement that went along with arriving in a foreign country as a secret agent charged with blowing up a ship.
If anything, his fascination with and hunger for the Virgin Princess had grown even more intense since he first met her four days before. He even dreamed about her, the dreams twice culminating in nocturnal emissions after he had worked his wicked imaginary way with her.
An hour earlier (he recalled in painfully exquisite detail as he watched her marvelous derriere, barely concealed by her tennis dress, ascend the stairs to the second floor) when the Virgin Princess bent over to retrieve a tennis ball and innocently offered him a glance down the opening of her blouse, his talleywacker popped to attention so quickly and with such intensity that he almost cried out in pain.
“How did the tennis go?” Pamela de Mallín asked, walking into the foyer.
“She’s really quite good. She has an unusually strong forehand.”
“From her father. My forehand stroke is my weak point. I’m sorry I couldn’t go with you.”
“We missed you.”
“Dorotea enjoys playing with you. She says that you’re so much better than she is that she’s learning a great deal. It’s nice of you to play with her.”
“My pleasure. She’s a really nice kid.”
“And, of course, she’s able to show off her older gentleman friend to all her girlfriends,” Pamela said with just a hint of a smile.
I wonder why I don’t react to her other friends the way I do to her. Many of them are as good-looking as she is.
“You won’t be having lunch, will you?” Pamela asked.
“No, thank you, I won’t. I’m to meet Mr. Nestor for lunch. Will finding a cab be any trouble? And how far is it from here to the bank?”
“Oh, I’ll have Ramón take you. And keep the car, Clete, I won’t be going anywhere.”
“That’s kind, but unnecessary. I can take a taxi.”
“Well, then, a compromise. Ramón will take you, and you can find your way back here on your own. What time are you to meet him?”
“I’d like to get there a few minutes before twelve.”
“Then you’d better leave here,” she looked at her watch, “at quarter past eleven. It’s now almost ten-thirty.”
“Then I’d better have my shower.”
“I’ll tell Ramón to bring the car outside at quarter past. And if I don’t see you before you go, have a nice lunch.”
“Thank you.”
Clete smiled at her and went up the stairs. His room was to the right, as was the Virgin Princess’s. And as he walked down the corridor to his room, he saw that the door to hers was slightly ajar. Ajar enough for him to glimpse her bed, on which her tennis clothes and undergarments lay after she had removed them prior to taking her shower. A moment later a delightful, if painful, image thrust its way into his mind—of the Virgin Princess standing under the shower with the water running down between her breasts to the junction of her legs.
Jesus Christ, Frade! You’re really a dirty young man!
He took a long cold shower and then dressed. He decided on a cord jacket and trousers. As he examined himself in the mirror, he remembered where he bought the jacket—in Neiman-Marcus, in Dallas. And when—in the spring of 1940, just before he graduated from Tulane.
The Virgin Princess was how old then? Seventeen?
At the time, he didn’t really want it. He suspected, correctly as it turned out, that he would not be permitted to wear civilian clothing when he went into the Corps; he went into the Corps three days after he graduated. But when he met Martha for lunch in the Neiman-Marcus restaurant before she flew out to Midland, she told him he looked like a ragpicker, that she was ashamed to be seen with him in public, and marched him into the men’s store and bought the jacket for him.
And now I’m Cletus Frade, Secret Agent, about to wear it in Argentina, for my first meeting with the mysterious Jasper C. Nestor, Spymaster.
It’s not happening the way it does in the movies. If Alan Ladd was sent down here to deal with the Dirty Huns, he would have met the spymaster in the middle of the night in some dark alley, and he’d have been wearing a trench coat.
“Why don’t you come here, Frade?” Nestor had said on the telephone. He had a Boston accent. More precisely a Harvard Boston banker accent. “I’ll introduce you to the people who will be handling your account. And then we’ll have lunch. Have you eaten in the Plaza?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“El Grill, on the ground floor, is the oldest restaurant in Buenos Aires. Everybody who visits Buenos Aires should eat there at least once.”
Is that what I’m doing, “visiting Buenos Aires”?
“Sounds fine.”
“Come by the office—I’m on the third floor—say about noon?”
“Right.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
Aware that he was doing it because he was thinking about Martha, Clete pulled on a pair of boots Martha had had made to his measure by a bootmaker in Matamoros. They had walking rather than riding heels, and calfskin uppers which took a high shine. Dress-up boots, Martha had called them. So he wouldn’t look like a saddle-bum when she made him take her to church.
Ramón drove him from Belgrano to the Banco de Boston Building in Florida in the Jaguar Saloon; and it turned out to be a disappointing car. It had a marvelous name, of course—it was hard to think of a Ford Saloon, or even a Lincoln Saloon, without smiling—and the body was beautiful, inside and out. But it didn’t have any power. Ramón had to row it along with the gearshift.
I’ll be glad when the Buick gets here.
The Banco de Boston Building, and the area around it, reminded Clete of Wall Street in New York City—1890s elegant, heavy, the facade elaborately decorated. The bronze doors of the main entrance, on a corner, were enormous; the entrance itself was floored and flanked with marble. He noticed, too, a brass plate mounted on the wall reading “Embajada
de los Estados Unidos de America,” with an arrow pointing to a doorway. Clete gave in to the impulse, took several steps backward on the sidewalk, and looked up. There it was, several floors above him, the American flag hanging limply from a pole.
He entered the bank and asked directions to Nestor’s office.
Nestor looked the way he sounded on the telephone. He was a slim man, about forty, wearing a nearly black gray suit, a button-down collar shirt, and a maroon Harvard tie.
“Well, Mr. Frade,” he said, flashing not much of a smile and offering a somewhat clammy hand. But, surprising Clete, he did his best to give him a painfully hard handshake. “I’m very happy to meet you. Had any trouble finding the place?”
“None at all, thank you.”
“Can I offer you a cup of coffee? Or would you rather we tend to our business and then feed the hungry man?”
“No coffee, thank you,” Clete said.
Nestor took a small leather card case from his jacket pocket, and peeled one off.
“My card. Feel free to call me at any time,” he said.
“Thank you,” Clete said.
Nestor took his arm and led him out of the office and back down to the main floor, where he introduced him to two Argentineans and two Americans, too low in the bank hierarchy to rate more than a desk and a chair for visitors in a long row of identical desk sets.
Each time he introduced Clete the same way:
“This is Mr. Frade, Mr. Cletus Howell Frade, of Howell Petroleum.”
One of the Americans was David Ettinger, who gave no sign he had ever seen Clete before.
“Mr. Ettinger has just come down here himself,” Nestor said. “He was in our New York office.”
At the desk of one of the Argentineans, Clete was given a signature card to sign. He was then informed it would be a week or two before checks with his name printed thereon would be available; in the meantime, he should feel free to use counter checks; “the tellers will be alerted to the situation.” He was handed a pad of a dozen counter checks, which were twice the size of an American check.
As they started out of the bank, Nestor touched his arm, and whispering as if he were about to impart a deep secret, asked, “I presume you’re all right for ready cash? Or should I arrange something before we leave?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” Clete said.
Nestor had a 1939 Buick Special Coupe parked in a garage near the Banco de Boston Building. The right fender and door bore red splotches. A body job was obviously in progress.
Apparently my new boss has not been able to adjust to driving on the left. Either that, or these people are as crazy behind the wheel as they seem. Or both.
Halfway to the Plaza Hotel, Clete concluded that it was both. Nestor was an inept, nervous driver, and a substantial percentage of the other drivers seemed to be insane.
“Well,” Nestor finally asked, “how are things going?”
“Either today or tomorrow Pelosi is moving into an apartment on Avenida Corrientes. Mallín tells me the ‘negotiations’ for my apartment should be completed either today or tomorrow and that I should be able to move in as soon as they are.”
“Where did you say that was?”
“Posadas 1354, Piso sexto”—sixth floor.
Clete had the strange feeling that a mechanical recorder had just started running in Nestor’s brain: Once hearing that address, he would never forget it, and he would spew it back with perfect accuracy whenever called upon.
“And the telephone number?”
“I don’t have that. One of the reasons the ‘negotiations’ are going so slowly was a disagreement over the price of the telephone.”
“Yes,” Nestor said.
“Where is Ettinger staying?”
“At the bank’s guest house. An apartment near Recoleta. I’m working on an apartment for him. When I have an address and a phone, I’ll pass it to you.”
“Am I permitted to ask questions?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What do you do if one of your agents doesn’t have an independent income?”
“You mean for money?”
“Yeah. Mallín told me the man who owns the apartment wanted two hundred fifty dollars for the phone, and he was trying to get it down to two hundred.”
“They’ve gone for as much as five,” Nestor said. “And then there will be a bribe to the telephone company, probably for at least that much, to activate the line. You’re lucky to have Mr. Mallín handling it for you.” He paused and then turned and smiled at Clete. “We try very hard to recruit young men of independent means.”
“Pelosi and Ettinger don’t have independent incomes.”
“Their expenses, within reason, for their telephone or to purchase automobiles, for example, will be reimbursed. I have funds for that. It’s important, you see, Frade, that no questions are raised about whence the money, beyond a reasonable salary, cometh. In your case, of course, that’s not a problem. Your middle name is Howell, as in Howell Petroleum. You can buy any kind of a car you want, and I suggest you do so as quickly as possible.”
“I’ve shipped my car from New Orleans,” Clete said. “You didn’t know?”
“No, I didn’t. Something ostentatious, I hope?”
“You tell me. It’s a ’41 Buick.”
“Splendid. A convertible coupe would be even better.”
“It’s a convertible,” Clete said.
I don’t believe this conversation.
“May I call you ‘Cletus’?” Nestor asked.
“I’d rather you called me ‘Clete.’”
“The thing is, Clete, the way to avoid suspicion is not to act suspiciously. The word will gradually get around who you are, which is to say the heir apparent to Howell Petroleum…”
“That’s really not so,” Clete interrupted, with a smile. “I’m one of three grandchildren.”
“…and the son of Jorge Guillermo Frade.”
“Mr. Nestor, do you know that I’ve never met my father?”
“Why don’t you call me ‘Jasper’?”
“Thank you.”
“People won’t believe, Clete, that you don’t know your father.” He smiled. “Everybody knows their father. They may not get along with him, but they know him.”
“I thought I’d better mention it,” Clete said.
“Yes. Of course,” Nestor said. “As I was saying, Clete, the word will get around that you’re a bachelor of means. That suits our purposes neatly. And, in one of the world’s most sophisticated cities, with—in case you haven’t already noticed—some of the world’s most beautiful women.”
Oh, I’ve noticed. The trouble is she just graduated from high school.
“It would attract notice if such a man did not take advantage of the repast fate has laid before him.”
“I understand. Another question?”
“Certainly.”
“When will I be able to get together with the other team leader?”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Nestor said.
“Sir,” Clete protested politely. “If we are to be the backup team, shouldn’t I know as much as possible about what they’ve got lined up?”
“Obviously, that would be the thing for you to do,” Nestor said. “But, unfortunately, the team has disappeared.”
With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Clete turned to look at Nestor.
“What do you mean, ‘disappeared’?”
“Disappeared,” Nestor repeated.
“You don’t know what happened to them?”
“It’s possible, but unlikely, that they are being held by the Argentines for interrogation, and that in a day, or a week, our ambassador will be summoned to the Foreign Ministry and handed a message condemning, in the strongest possible terms, this outrageous intrusion into Argentine internal affairs. But I don’t think that will happen. Everybody knows the rules of the game.”
“What are you saying? That they were caught and executed?”
<
br /> “That seems the most likely scenario.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“These things happen. They have to be expected. That’s why your team was sent down here. To be available in case something went wrong.”
“I suppose,” Clete said.
I’m not terrified, Clete thought. I’ve been terrified often enough to know that’s not my reaction now. How about “scared shitless”? That fits in between “terrified” and “deeply concerned.”
“The United States has two important concerns here, Clete,” Nestor said. “First, as a tactical objective with diplomatic overtones, the replenishment vessel has to be rendered hors de combat. And we have to accomplish that before the Brazilians decide to deal with it themselves. It is not in the interests of the United States that they go to war against Argentina at this time.”
“The mentors from the Country Club discussed that in New Orleans,” Clete said.
“Secondly, equally important, we have to teach the Argentines a lesson.”
They just taught us one, didn’t they? Don’t mess with our neutrality.
“Yes, Sir?”
“I really wish you would call me ‘Jasper,’” Nestor said. “I understand, force of habit, but someone hearing you might ask…”
“Sorry, Jasper. I’ll work on it.”
“The Argentines have to be taught that they can’t stop us from making sure they stay neutral; that they can’t close their eyes to the fact that the Germans are reprovisioning their submarines and surface raiders in the River Plate. More important, that even if they have eliminated one of our teams, we are capable of, and will in fact, send in another team. And another. And another. As many as it takes.”
“I understand. Will there be another team sent down here now?”
“I’m sure there will be. No telling, of course, how long it will take to find the men, and then run them through the training school, et cetera, et cetera. For the time being, Clete, you’re the varsity team.”
“Varsity team”? Jesus Christ! We’re here to blow up a ship, not play football!
“It will be important for you to keep in mind that we don’t want to anger the Argentineans. Ideally, you would render the replenishment ship inoperable, rather than sink it, and do so without its coming out publicly that it was done by Americans.”
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