“Some Foreign Ministry bureaucrat will almost certainly lower those numbers, just to feel he’s doing his duty to the Austrian Corporal,” Generalmajor Graf Karl-Friedrich von Wachtstein had said, “but I’m sure they will not deny the request entirely. Just try not to spend it all on the same Señorita.”
When the memory brought tears to his eyes, Peter told himself that the cognac of the previous evening was working on him, as well as the beer now, not foolish and maudlin sentimentality.
He thumbed through a stack of United States twenty-dollar bills, then pulled one out in curiosity and examined it. On one side was a picture of a long-nosed man with flowing silver hair. His name was Jackson. He seemed to recall the Americans had a President named Jackson.
And a general named Jackson. Stonewall Jackson. Defeated the British at New Orleans in 1812. 1812? Same man? Did the Americans put pictures of general officers on their currency? Did American generals become Presidents?
On the other side of the bill was a picture of the White House.
A very attractive, if not very imposing, edifice. Didn’t the British burn this building to the ground in 1812? Or was it…the what? The Rebels—the Confederates—in the Civil War who burned it? There was a Confederate cavalry officer by the name of J.E.B. Stuart…a magnificent warrior. Graf Wilhelm Karl von Wachtstein, then an Oberstleutnant, rode with him as an observer. Because J.E.B. Stuart was not a professional officer, he did not know it was impossible to haul artillery around the battlefield with cavalry horses. The proper method of employing artillery required building emplacements, and then spending a good deal of time and effort “laying in” the cannon, so that the field of fire was known. Ignorant of all this, Stuart hauled his cannon about the battlefield at a gallop, and fired his cannon at the enemy with no preparation whatever, except loading the piece.
With great effectiveness.
Great-grandfather came home to Germany and wrote a book about his experiences, devoting a substantial portion of it to the proven merits of attaching artillery to cavalry, for great mobility and firepower on the battlefield. Peter’s father told him they used the book as a reference at the War College, and that he knew for a fact that it greatly affected the thinking of General Hasso von Manteuffel when he was a student. And consequently it had a great effect on the evolution of the Blitzkrieg philosophy that proved so effective against France and, at least initially, against Russia.
There was a knock at the door.
Who the hell is that?
“I am asleep, come back in two hours!”
“Please, Hauptmann von Wachtstein, open the door,” someone replied in German.
Peter quickly closed the steamer trunk and went to the door and opened it. A small, skinny, middle-aged man in a business suit stood there, holding a gray homburg in his hand.
“May I please come in, Herr Hauptmann? I am Ambassador von Lutzenberger.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Excellency, I had no idea,” Peter said. He opened the door wide, and then with a curt bow and a click of his heels, he stepped aside.
“I’ve been told you often open your mouth before you think,” von Lutzenberger said.
He walked around the suite, opening doors, even looking into the bathroom, and then returned to Peter.
“It is important that we have this conversation,” he said. “And more important that no one else is privy to it.”
“Jawohl, Excellenz.”
“I was given a rather interesting appraisal of your character by Generalmajor Dieter von Haas,” von Lutzenberger said. “It came to me out of the normal channels. By hand specifically, from the Ambassador of Portugal. Do I make my point, Herr Hauptmann?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Dieter von Haas wrote that you are a fine young officer…but with a lamentable tendency to drink and talk too much for your own good—and the good of people around you.”
“I regret that Generalmajor von Haas has such a low opinion of me, Your Excellency.”
Von Lutzenberger ignored the reply.
“I presume the money came through safely, and without official notice?” he asked.
“I was checking when you knocked,” Peter said, nodding at the steamer trunk.
“In a week or so, I will be in a position to make suggestions about its disposition,” von Lutzenberger said. “Von Haas’s letter reached me only a few days ago, and I have not had the time to make the necessary inquiries. I think it will be safe enough with you for the time being.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“There are several questions of immediate importance. First, when you were at the Frade house, did you happen to meet the son?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And?”
“We had a drink.”
“That’s all?”
“He told me he served in the American Corps of Marines. He was a pilot.”
“Do you think he is a former officer? Or is he still serving?”
“I have no way of knowing, Your Excellency.”
“His father is a very important man in Argentina.” He met Peter’s eyes for a moment, then continued. “I do not have all the details as yet about the son’s actual business here. We may safely assume, however, that he is a serving officer and that he is not here on holiday. But his father may be of great use to us, presuming I can somehow convince the Abwehr and Sicherheitsdienst to do nothing foolish. Which brings us to the Abwehr and Sicherheitsdienst in the Embassy, where they are embodied in one man, Oberst Karl-Heinz Grüner. You will explain to Grüner—and you’ll tell my first secretary, Herr Gradny-Sawz, the same—that while you encountered the Frade boy, there was nothing more than an exchange of brief courtesies. You will pretend to be greatly surprised if they inform you he is an American officer.”
“Jawohl, Excellenz.”
“My residence, my office, and my telephone lines are regularly inspected to detect listening devices. I am regularly assured there are none—by Oberst Grüner. Consequently, I am very careful of what I say in my office, in my home, and on the telephone. Do you take my point, Herr Hauptmann?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“After you are presented to me tomorrow by Grüner, I will, as a courtesy to your father, whom I know socially, have you as a guest in my home. You will remain there until you have completed your duties vis-à-vis Hauptmann Duarte and my staff can find you a suitable apartment. I regret that our relationship thereafter will be formal and distant. This is doubly unfortunate, inasmuch as Frau von Lutzenberger and your mother were close, and I myself hold your father in the highest regard,” he met Peter’s eyes again, “in these difficult times.”
“I understand, Your Excellency.”
“This conversation never took place.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Watch your drinking and your mouth, von Wachtstein.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Ambassador von Lutzenberger nodded, turned, and walked out of the room.
[FOUR]
The Port of Buenos Aires
1200 14 December 1942
When Clete and Señora Pellano left the taxi, the Buick was waiting for him, along with half a dozen customs officials. The Buick looked like hell, despite an obviously fresh, if none-too-skillful, wash job.
The paperwork was taken care of. All he had to do was sign an acknowledgment of receipt of the vehicle in an undamaged condition.
A customs officer—obviously the senior man, Clete decided, in deference to my father or Señor Mallín or both—walked to the car with him and watched somewhat nervously as Clete threw his and Señora Pellano’s bags on the backseat, then got behind the wheel.
The engine fired as soon as he stepped on the starter; and it quickly settled down to produce its entirely satisfying Buick Straight Eight exhaust rumble. The smoothness, so quickly, surprised Clete, and he looked at the water-temperature gauge. The engine was warm; it had obviously been running recently. He remembered now that the customs officer standing by the side of the car exhaled au
dibly in relief when the engine started.
Having friends—or a parent—in high places is very nice.
“Excuse me, Señor,” the customs officer said. “Be so kind. Inform me how you did that?”
“Did what?” Clete said, and then understood.
“On this model the starter is mounted with the accelerator pedal. To start the engine, it is necessary only to press the accelerator.”
“Magnífico! We looked—I myself looked—for the starter button, and could find none. It was necessary to call a mechanic to…how you say, jump-start?”
“Short the starter leads,” Clete furnished.
“Precisely,” the customs officer said. “A marvelous invention!”
“Thank you, and thank you for your many courtesies.”
“De nada,” the customs officer said, offering his hand. After Clete shook his hand, he stepped back and saluted.
Clete put the Buick in gear and drove off, feeling fine, wondering if the Virgin Princess would be as fascinated with the step-on-the-gas-pedal starting technology as the customs guy was.
If I am goddamn fool enough to actually call her up and ask her if she still wants to take the ride she asked for.
Jesus Christ, why does she have to be only nineteen goddamned years old? And an innocent, virginal nineteen-year-old at that?
The good feeling about the Buick lasted until he reached the port gate and its guard shack. The heavy steel gate was open, and the guard on duty smilingly waved him through. Just outside the gate, there was a small, permanent watercourse, about six inches deep and perhaps a foot wide.
When he crossed it, there was an awful thump, as if the whole goddamned rear end were about to fall off.
He drove, very slowly, for a block or two, listening for the sounds of a fatal defect—the clutch tearing itself to pieces, for example—and then pulled into a side street, stopped, and got out. He tried to slam the door. It wouldn’t close. He tried it again, then took a closer look to see what the hell was wrong with it.
The door panel was falling off.
Jesus Christ! How did that happen?
He tried to push the little clips back in place with his thumb. That didn’t work. They needed the jolt from a hammer. There was—at least the last time he looked—a tool kit in the trunk. He reached through the window and pulled the key from the ignition.
“There is trouble, Señor Clete?” Señora Pellano asked.
“I don’t think so. Just checking.”
When he opened the trunk, the mysterious thump was explained. The spare tire was not mounted where it should have been: flat on the trunk floor against the right fender well and held in place with a bolt passing through the floor plate. When he passed over the bump, the tire flew up and down.
How the hell did that come loose?
I’ll be a sonofabitch; they searched the car. They took the spare out to see what I might have hidden in there, and they didn’t know how to put it back the way they found it. That also explains the loose door panel.
He pressed hard on the sidewall of the spare. It had been deflated, obviously to dismount it. And he found scratches on the paint of the wheel. And then they forgot to reinflate it—or else they didn’t have time to do that.
He bolted the spare wheel in place, found the hammer, and tapped the door-panel clips on both doors back in place. They had managed to properly reinstall the rear seat panels, however, which fastened with screws.
He finally slipped behind the wheel and started the engine again.
“All fixed, Señora Pellano,” he said. “Among my many other accomplishments, I am a master mechanic.”
“I am not surprised,” she replied seriously.
Sorry, Princess. No ride in the Buick. If Internal Security is watching me this close, you don’t want to be anywhere near me. What the hell was I thinking about?
[FIVE]
Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo
Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province
1715 14 December 1942
A dark-maroon Beechcraft stagger-wing and a Piper Cub were parked beside a wind sock about a thousand yards from the grove of trees surrounding the ranch house—the trees looked to Clete like several acres of long-established, at least a century old, hardwood. He wondered if his father flew the Beechcraft, then decided that was unlikely. Since there was probably a pilot, that would probably complicate his laying his hands on the stagger-wing.
And then there is that other problem, Cletus, my boy, you’ve never flown a stagger-wing. Well, so what? You never flew a Wildcat either before the first day you flew one. If you can fly a Wildcat, it would seem logical that you can fly a stagger-wing.
When Clete pulled up, el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade was sitting in an armchair on the wide verandah of the ranch house. He held a large, very black cigar in one hand; and in the other was a large, squat glass, dark with whiskey. He was wearing a white polo shirt, riding breeches, and glistening boots.
“Welcome to San Pedro y San Pablo,” Frade said, moving down the shallow stairs toward the car.
The cigar, Clete saw, was freshly lit. The drink was fresh. So was the shave: A dot of shaving cream was by his father’s ear.
He got all dressed up to meet me. Jesus, that’s nice.
“I brought Señora Pellano along with me to show me the way,” Clete said as he shook his father’s hand.
“I hope that is all right?” Señora Pellano asked.
“Of course it is, Marianna,” Frade said. “I should have thought of it myself.”
“Gracias, mi Coronel,” she said.
“Nice-looking automobile,” Frade said. “The latest model?” He took a closer look and proclaimed indignantly, “It’s filthy.”
“It just came off the ship.”
“They should have prepared it for you at the dock,” Frade said indignantly. “I was assured that everything would be taken care of.” But then he brightened. “No problem. Enrico will see to it that it is washed and waxed.”
“That’s not necessary,” Clete protested.
“Nonsense. Enrico will be pleased. He admires fine automobiles. Marianna, would you be good enough to have someone take care of Señor Cletus’s luggage, and have someone send for Enrico, and then ask if they can prepare a little snack for Señor Cletus and myself?”
“Sí, mi Coronel.”
“Come sit on the porch with me,” Frade said. “I do not normally take spirits before seven, but your visit is a special occasion for me. And perhaps you would like a little something…what is it they say, ‘to cut the dust of the trail’?”
“Yes,” Clete said, restraining a smile. “Thank you, I would.”
Señora Pellano walked into the house. Thirty seconds later, a procession of three servants marched onto the porch, one of them heading for the car, the other two pushing wheeled tables. On the first of these was arrayed an enormous plate of hors d’oeuvres. And on the second Clete saw enough whiskey of various sorts for a party of eight.
He had that set up, too. It took half an hour to make that tray of food. How did he know exactly when I would arrive? Ah hah, those guys galloping over the fields on those beautiful horses with the funny-looking, hornless saddles. He had people out there waiting.
“We will have a drink, or perhaps two, and then you will decide when we should have our dinner. It will be simple, just you and I. It will take no more than an hour to prepare.”
“Thank you,” Clete said.
“I did not know when you would arrive, of course, so I was about to take a ride,” Frade said.
Sure you were. Where’s the horse, Dad?
“I saw some beautiful animals a couple of miles back,” Clete said.
“We take pride in our animals,” Frade said. “I am sure that your uncle James taught you to ride?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Perhaps we will have time to ride tomorrow.”
“I’d like that,” Clete said.
“I don’t know about riding clothe
s…” Frade said, almost in alarm.
“I’m wearing all I need,” Clete said, hoisting his trousers to reveal his boots. “Anyway, Uncle Jim always said that a man who couldn’t ride bareback really couldn’t ride.”
“Yes, I recall, James was a fine horseman. And your mother rode extremely well for a woman. So it is in your blood from both sides.”
Enrico appeared. There was no look of recognition on his face.
“¿Mi Coronel?”
“Enrico, this is my son, Señor Cletus, former Teniente of the U.S. Marine Corps. Cletus, Enrico is former Suboficial Mayor”—Sergeant Major—“of the Husares de Pueyrredón. We were together there for many years, weren’t we, Enrico?”
My father doesn’t know how he got home from the Guest House the night he passed out. Or he knows, and we are pretending we don’t.
“Sí, mi Coronel. A sus órdenes, mi Teniente.”
Enrico smiled at him warmly as Clete shook his hand.
Whaddayasay, Gunny? How they hanging? Still one below the other?
“Be so good, Enrico, to prepare Señor Cletus’s automobile. Have it washed and waxed, and you—personally—check all the mechanicals.”
“Sí, mi Coronel.”
The drink prepared by the maid was at least a triple. Clete sipped a small swallow, put it down, and then stood up.
“I need the gentlemen’s,” he said.
“Emilia, show Señor Cletus to his apartment,” Frade ordered the maid who was passing the hors d’oeuvres and mixing the drinks.
He was distracted by other things before he reached the apartment. When he entered the house, he found himself in an enormous foyer. Off of this opened three corridors. The maid led him down one of those, and then Señora Pellano intercepted them.
“I wish to show you something, Señor Cletus,” she said, and opened the door of one of the rooms.
Whatever I’m about to be shown, the maid doesn’t like it a goddamned bit, to judge by that horrified look on her face.
Señora Pellano entered the room ahead of Clete, snapped on the lights, then stood to one side.
It was something like a small library. There was a leather armchair, with a footstool and a chair side table on which sat a cigar humidor and a large ashtray. There was a library table, on which rested a stack of leather-bound albums. And hanging over the fireplace there was a large oil portrait of Elizabeth-Ann Howell de Frade with her infant son Cletus in her arms.
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