“Welcome to Argentina,” she said, and raised her glass. Clete followed suit.
Claudia held up her hand to stop the toast.
“No,” she said. “More importantly. Welcome home, Cletus. Your father has been waiting for you for a long time.”
“Thank you,” Clete said, and his voice broke.
Claudia walked quickly to him and laid a hand on his cheek. Then, with a little hug, she kissed him. He could smell expensive perfume.
“It is all right to cry,” she said. “Your father cries often.”
She was right. When Clete looked at his father, tears were running down his cheeks.
[SIX]
Bureau of Internal Security
Ministry of Defense
Edificio Libertador
Avenida Paseo Colón
Buenos Aires
2045 14 December 1942
El Teniente Coronel Bernardo Martín, in a foul mood, parked his car directly in front of the main entrance of the building and stormed inside.
It is almost nine o’clock, after all, and unless Paraguay or Chile has invaded Argentina as an evening surprise, there will be no one superior in rank to me in the building, and I can park wherever the hell I choose.
The ornately uniformed guards standing by the door moved from parade rest to rifle salute as he passed (the formal guards at the Edifico Libertador wear the dress uniforms of the Patricios Regiment, circa 1809). Martín, who was wearing civilian clothing, forgot that he wasn’t in uniform and returned the salute.
The door to the building was locked, and he pressed the bell button impatiently. A sargento appeared, immediately followed by a teniente, to tell him the building was closed. These men were in the field uniform, with German-style helmets and accoutrements, of the army unit charged with actually protecting—as opposed to decorating—the building.
He finally produced his Internal Security credentials. He disliked using them—and did not, unless he had to—because there was a lamentable and uncontrollable tendency on the part of people like this to remember him and point him out to their girlfriends: See the funny man? He’s Internal Security!
With profound apologies, the teniente finally opened the door. He would now almost certainly remember him; he could tell all his friends that Internal Security, ever vigilant, worked all night. Martín walked across the lobby and took the elevator to his seventh-floor offices.
The sargento on duty and Comandante Carlos Habanzo were waiting for him there. They rose to their feet as Martín walked through the door.
“Buenas noches, mi Coronel.”
“I was playing bridge with the father-in-law when you called, Habanzo. I hope your reasons are important,” Martín said, and waved at Habanzo to follow him as he walked to the door of his office and opened it.
“I took the liberty of putting the agent’s reports on your desk, mi Coronel,” Habanzo said.
Martín sat down at his desk and read the reports. They told him nothing that Habanzo had not told him—or hinted at—on the telephone.
“Why did this idiot not follow young Frade and the other one to Uruguay?”
“Mi Coronel, as you yourself have often said: Without specific, previous authorization, an agent’s authority stops at the water’s edge.”
If I say now what I would like to say, I will regret it.
“Habanzo,” he said a full thirty seconds later—which of course seemed much longer to Comandante Habanzo—“I will explain our policy to you one more time. I would appreciate it if you would not only remember it, but pass it on to our agents: The authority of an agent does indeed end at the water’s edge. But this agent’s instructions were to surveille young Frade, not arrest him. No authority is needed to follow someone across a border. Do you see the difference?”
“Sí, mi Coronel,” Habanzo replied. “Mi Coronel, in this specific case, in addition to his misunderstanding of his authority, our agent did not have sufficient funds to take the boat to Montevideo for an unknown period of time. There would have been a hotel bill. Perhaps he would have been required to rent an automobile…”
Martín held up his hand to stop him.
“Be so good as to refresh my memory, Habanzo.”
“I will try, mi Coronel.”
“Do we have an officer on our staff who is charged with seeing that our agents are properly equipped to perform their duties?”
“Sí, mi Coronel,” Habanzo said, somewhat unhappily, now sensing what was coming.
“Charged, in other words, with providing them with automobiles, appropriate documents, weapons where necessary…and of course sufficient funds to fulfill their duties?”
“Sí, mi Coronel.”
“And who, precisely, is that officer on our staff, Habanzo? What is his name?”
“It is I, mi Coronel. I have obviously failed to carry out my duty.”
“Unfortunately, that is the conclusion I myself have reached.”
He let him sweat for a full minute before he went on.
“The damage is done, Habanzo. We will speak no more of it.”
“It will never happen again, mi Coronel. Gracias, mi Coronel.”
“We know from this,” Martín said, tapping a document on his desk, “that young Frade and the other one…”
“Pelosi, mi Coronel. Anthony—it is the English for Antonio—Pelosi.”
“…returned from Uruguay at approximately nine-thirty last night.”
“Whereupon, mi Coronel, surveillance of the subjects was resumed by our agents, who were stationed at customs in the expectation that they would return.”
“Did it occur to them to speak with the customs officer who inspected their luggage?”
“No, mi Coronel, it did not,” Habanzo replied, and hastily added, as he saw the clouds form on Martín’s face: “I personally went to the individual concerned and questioned him myself.”
Proving, I suppose, that you are only half stupid.
“And?”
“There was nothing suspicious in their belongings, mi Coronel. They had boxes of straw ducks, chickens…you know what I mean. And two beach radios that didn’t work.”
“One thing at a time. The straw ducks. Why would two bachelors have boxes full of children’s toys?”
“I have no idea, mi Coronel,” Habanzo confessed. “Perhaps for the children of their servants.”
“And perhaps they contained enough explosives to blow up the Edificio Libertador! Did that occur to you?”
Habanzo considered the question seriously.
“I do not think it was possible that the boxes contained that quantity of explosives, mi Coronel.”
“I was speaking figuratively, Habanzo.”
“Yes, of course, mi Coronel.”
“Tell me about the beach radios.”
“You know the type, mi Coronel. They are powered by batteries, and you can take them with you. To the park, for example, or the beach. Theirs did not work.”
“They had two portable radios? And they did not work?”
“Sí, mi Coronel. They did not work. The customs man tried them, and all he heard was a hiss.”
“You don’t think it suspicious that each had a radio?”
Habanzo shrugged and held up his hands helplessly.
“Did he tell you what these portable radios looked like?”
“Like oversized telephones.”
Habanzo, you are an idiot of unbelievable magnitude!
“Habanzo, two months ago, through the courtesy of el Coronel Grüner of the German Embassy, I was treated to a lecture of the latest German communications equipment. One of the items he was kind enough to show me was a portable communications radio. It had a range of several kilometers, weighed three kilograms, and looked like an oversized telephone, to which was attached an automobile antenna. Do you suppose that only Germans possess such electrical genius, or do you think it is possible that the norteamericanos might come up with something comparable?”
“You think they
were communications radios, mi Coronel?”
“I think we must consider that possibility, don’t you?”
They didn’t go to Uruguay to pick up a couple of radios. Those would have been sent to them via the diplomatic pouches of the American Embassy. So what were they doing in Uruguay?
“I could send someone into the Frade guest house, mi Coronel, to examine the radios. If they are still there.”
“If they are still there?”
“On his way to the port to pick up his car, Frade stopped at Calle Monroe 214, in Belgrano, at the apartment of Señor David Ettinger, an employee of the Banco de Boston. He carried a shopping bag containing a straw chicken. He did not have the straw chicken with him when he left.”
“We must consider the possibility, mustn’t we, that the straw chicken was a present from Señor Frade to Señor Ettinger?”
“The shopping bag was large enough, mi Coronel, to also contain the radios. Or something else.”
“Permission denied,” Martín said after a moment. “I don’t want any intrusion into the living quarters of any of these three without my specific approval. Understood?”
“Sí, mi Coronel.”
“Who inspected young Frade’s automobile at the port?” Martín asked, picking up a report from his desk.
“Two of our men, under my personal supervision, mi Coronel.”
In that case, he could have smuggled in two elephants.
“And?”
“Absolutely nothing, mi Coronel.”
Three elephants.
“And was the investigation conducted carefully? Will it go undetected?”
“Absolutely, mi Coronel. You have my personal assurance about that.”
Which means he will know we searched his car.
“And where is he now?”
“We have just had word from our man at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo that he is with his father.”
“I don’t want him lost again, Habanzo.”
“I understand, mi Coronel.”
“Provide whatever personnel are required. See that they have adequate funds to cover any contingency.”
“Sí, mi Coronel.”
“My function, Habanzo, is to know everything there is to know about el Coronel Frade and his associates. I think that his son could be considered an associate, don’t you? His long-lost, recently returned son, who just happens to be—he says—a recently discharged American officer?”
“Yes, of course, mi Coronel.”
XIV
[ONE]
Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo
1115 15 December 1942
Two gauchos, sprawled on the wide steps to the verandah, were waiting for them when they returned from their ride. As they approached, Clete’s horse, a magnificent sorrel, shied at something and, with a shrill whinny, reared. Despite the strange saddle, Clete managed to keep his seat and to control the animal, and more than a little smugly noticed both surprise and approval on the faces of the gauchos.
The Norteamericano did not get his ass thrown. Sorry about that, guys!
The gauchos took the reins of the horses and led them away. And Clete followed his father and Claudia Carzino-Cormano onto the verandah. The more he saw this woman, the more he liked her. If she and Aunt Martha met, they would form an instant mutual admiration society. Like Martha, Claudia was a first-class horsewoman; and like Martha, she said what was in her mind, rather than what she thought a lady should say. And, like Martha, she ran a ranch. An estancia almost, but not quite, as large as San Pedro y San Pablo.
He was touched and amused at his father’s blustering attempts to paint her as just a platonic acquaintance who happened to drop by now and again. The servants obeyed her orders the way they’d obey the mistress of the place. And last night, when his father suggested, “Since it’s late, Claudia, why don’t you spend the night? I’ll have one of the guest rooms set up for you,” she winked at Clete and smiled.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Jorge,” she said.
And when he got up the next morning and went looking for something to eat, Claudia was already up too, wearing a white blouse and baggy trousers, and soft, black, tight-over-the-calf leather boots, obviously a gentle lady’s riding costume—which his father apparently expected him to believe just “happened” to be in the house.
“Your father is insufferable until he has had his second cup of coffee,” she greeted him. “It is best to ignore him, or anything he says.”
Clete had ridden hornless saddles before—at Texas A&M, the ROTC horses had Army-issue McClellan cavalry saddles—and after a few minutes, he became accustomed to the Argentine saddle. It was called a recado, Claudia told him. Although everyone else in the area had been using “English” saddles since the turn of the century, his father insisted on keeping them, because he was too cheap to throw anything away.
When Clete’s father overheard her tell Clete that, he flared up at her: “I am not cheap, my dear. I am frugal, and I respect our traditions. Since they have been properly cared for, they have not worn out.” She rode close to him then, murmured, “Precioso, I’m sorry,” and leaned out of her recado to kiss him.
Acting as if the kiss—which calmed him down immediately—never happened, Clete’s father then delivered a lecture on the history of their saddles. A brilliant saddler made them on the estancia during the tenure of Clete’s great-grandfather. The shape of the seat, he went on to say, together with estribando largo—long stirrups—permit the rider to sit in an almost vertical position, the merits of which for herding cattle over long hours do not have to be explained. Except perhaps to a woman.
“Sí, mi jefe,” Claudia replied, laughing.
When they came onto the verandah, Señora Pellano was supervising the arrangement of a little “after the morning canter” refreshment. There were two bottles of champagne in coolers, and an array of sweets and cold cuts.
“I would suggest, Cletus,” Frade said, “that you pass up the champagne.”
“Why?” Claudia demanded.
“I am reliably informed that it is not wise to fly an aircraft under the influence of alcohol.”
“Is he going flying?”
“I thought—it is a lovely day—that we would return you to your home in the Beechcraft. I will arrange for your car to be delivered there.”
“And Cletus will fly the airplane?”
“Certainly. Why not? He is an experienced military pilot. He probably knows more about flying than el Capitán Delgano.”
“Cletus?” Claudia asked, a hint of doubt in her voice.
“After flying the Wildcat fighter, Claudia,” his father persisted, “as he did in Guadalcanal, flying the Beechcraft will be like riding a tame old mare.”
“I’m sure I can fly it,” Clete said. “But I’d like to solo it an hour or so before I carry passengers.”
“Solo it?”
“Fly it alone for an hour.”
“Not only experienced, but cautious,” Frade said. “It is settled. We will have our sandwiches, and he will have coffee. And afterwards he will solo for an hour, and then we will fly you home. I’m sure your daughters will like to meet him. Perhaps he can take them for a ride. You might wish to call to make sure they are at home.”
“Precioso,” Claudia said, laughing, “if it is your intention to marry him off to one of the girls, as I suspect it is, you are going about it in exactly the wrong way. Young people never like the young people their parents consider suitable for them.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade said.
“El Teniente Frade is a fine pilot, mi Coronel,” el Capitán Gonzalo Delgano, Air Service, Argentine Army, Retired, reported. The two of them had just taken the stagger-wing Beechcraft on a thirty-minute orientation flight, with half a dozen touch-and-go landings. “As fine a pilot as I know.”
Don’t let it go to your head, Cletus, my boy. Unless you had dumped that airplane, it was the only thing he co
uld say about the boss’s son’s piloting skills.
He also doesn’t like it a bit that I’m flying what he thought of as his personal airplane. But there’s nothing he can do about that, either, except smile.
“Then we can go?” el Coronel asked. “I will send for Señora Carzino-Cormano.”
“Not yet,” Clete said. “I’d like to solo it first.”
His father looked disappointed and a little annoyed, but finally said, “Whatever you think is best, Cletus.”
“I won’t be long,” Clete said, and walked back to the airplane.
The pilot in him now took over. He had no doubt that he could fly the airplane, but that presumed nothing would go wrong. A lot of things could go wrong: The checkout had been really inadequate, and there was no civilian equivalent of a Navy BuAir Dash One, “Pilot’s Instruction Manual,” to study for the CAUTION notices, which warned pilots what they should not do.
But I have to fly it. And not just to take Señora Carzino-Cormano safely home.
While he was looking the plane over earlier, he noticed a low-level chart in a compartment on the door, an Argentine Army Air Service map of the area. He examined this with great interest. In addition to pointing out the few available navigation aids, a dozen or so civilian airstrips—one was at the Estancia Santa Catharina, Señora Carzino-Cormano’s ranch—and a military air base ninety kilometers to the south, the chart showed the entire mouth of the Río de la Plata, including all of Samborombón Bay and a couple of miles of the coastline of Uruguay.
Within a day or two, he thought with sudden excitement—presuming she’s not already here—the Reine de la Mer will be anchored out there, waiting to replenish German submarines. I’m supposed to find her and blow her up. I didn’t come here with the idea of finding her myself, but I can’t pass up the opportunity to see if I can.
He strapped himself in and looked out the window for el Capitán Delgano. When they first fired up the stagger-wing, Clete stood by the fire extinguisher for Delgano. And he expected Delgano to do the same for him; but Delgano was nowhere in sight. Clete pushed himself out of the leather-upholstered pilot’s seat, went back through the cabin, and opened the door.
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