“I am impressed with your intimate knowledge of the capabilities—or should I say limitations?—of our Armada, mi Coronel.” El Coronel Frade nodded, and there was the suggestion of a smile.
“Insofar as getting the radio equipment off your destroyer, mi Coronel,” Frade said. “The vessel will be taking aboard foodstuffs, fresh meat, vegetables?”
“Yes, I’m sure it will,” Graham said.
“The contract to victual foreign warships has been granted to Servicios de Proveedores Asociados by the Armada Argentina. I doubt very much if the Armada Argentina would question what the people from S.P.A. took off your destroyer after they had delivered the victuals. Or if the S.P.A. refrigerator truck went from the wharf to the Frigorífico del Norte slaughterhouse. And there certainly would be nothing suspicious about a Frigorífico del Norte truck going to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.”
“Can you arrange that?” Graham asked. “That would be more efficient than funneling the equipment through the Embassy.”
“Enrico?” el Coronel asked in turn.
“No problem, mi Coronel. It is done.”
“That was easy,” Graham said.
“I own S.P.A. and Frigorífico del Norte,” Frade said, “and Enrico has many trustworthy friends.”
There was a knock at the door, and then it opened. A maid, looking more than a little nervous, stepped inside.
“We require nothing,” Frade snapped.
“Mi Coronel, there is a telephone call for Señor Cletus.”
Christ! The Virgin Princess. Worried about me.
“It is a Comandante von Wachtstein, Señor Cletus.”
Frade looked at Clete, his eyebrows raised in question.
“I’ll take it, thank you,” Clete said.
Curiosity overwhelmed El Coronel Frade. “The German officer? What does he want?”
“I’m about to find out,” Clete said, rising to go to the telephone.
“He is a Luftwaffe officer,” he heard his father explain to Colonel Graham. “He accompanied the remains of my nephew, who was killed at Stalingrad, here for burial.”
“He’s also the fellow who warned me those bastards were going to try to kill me,” Clete said as he picked up the telephone.
“¿Hola?”
“Señor Frade? This is el Comandante von Wachtstein.”
“Comandante?”
“Yes. Somewhat belatedly recognizing my extraordinary talents, the Oberkommando der Luftwaffe has promoted me.”
“How wise of them. And how nice to hear your voice, mi Comandante.”
“How nice to hear yours. Señor Frade, especially after your unfortunate encounter, which I read about in the newspaper. I called to let you know how pleased I was to hear that you’re all right.”
“Unfortunately, mi Comandante, Señora Pellano is not all right.”
“The world seems to be full of vicious bastards, doesn’t it, Señor Frade?”
“It certainly does.”
“But life goes on, Señor Frade. I had another reason to call.”
“And what was that, mi Comandante?”
“The day after Christmas, I am having luncheon at the Centro Naval. The Officers’ Club, downtown. They have honored me with a guest membership.”
“How nice for you, mi Comandante.”
“It’s a pity you are no longer a serving officer, Señor Frade. Perhaps, if you were, your father could arrange such a membership for you. It’s a lovely place.”
“My father is an amazing man, mi Comandante. Perhaps he can arrange a membership for me anyway. Do I understand you are inviting me to lunch?”
“Actually, it was Señorita Carzino-Cormano’s idea. And with your approval, she suggests we ask Señorita Mallín to make it a foursome.”
Clete saw that El Coronel Frade and Colonel Graham were shamelessly eavesdropping on the conversation. He smiled warmly at both.
“Under that circumstance, mi Comandante, I gratefully accept your kind invitation.”
“Splendid. We will look forward to seeing you at two at the Centro Naval.”
“I’ll be there, mi Comandante,” Clete said, and hung up.
“Isn’t your friend sticking his neck way out having lunch with you?” Graham asked.
“Whatever he is, Peter von Wachtstein is no fool,” Clete said.
“And don’t turn your imagination on, Colonel,” Clete continued. “Don’t even start to dream up one of your goddamned scenarios if it involves von Wachtstein.”
Graham held his hands up in innocence.
“It never entered my mind, Clete.”
“Bullshit, Colonel. Just forget it.”
“Dorotea?” his father asked.
“Our relationship has changed, Dad.”
“Now, Cletus? Under these circumstances?”
“Why not? And anyway, it’s out of my control.”
His father met his eyes, then smiled and shrugged.
“Shall we continue with the business at hand?” he asked.
[FOUR]
4730 Avenida Libertador
Buenos Aires
1205 25 December 1942
When Chief Radioman Oscar J. Schultz, USN, arrived at the Guest House in the back of a truck, wearing civilian work clothes and carrying a case of mineral water, he looked more than a little dubious about the whole operation.
He set the case of mineral water on the kitchen table and glanced around.
“Mr. Frade?”
Clete nodded.
“I’m Chief Schultz.”
“This is Lieutenant Pelosi and Staff Sergeant Ettinger.”
“Who’s the character with the shotgun? Is he in on this?”
“¿Señor?” Enrico asked.
“Chief Schultz, this is Suboficial Mayor—Sergeant Major—Rodríguez, Argentine Cavalry, Retired,” Clete said.
“No shit?” Chief Schultz replied, examined Enrico more carefully, and then offered his hand to him.
“Chief Radioman Schultz, Suboficial Mayor,” he said in Spanish. “I’m damned glad to see you here. I was afraid I was going to be the only professional involved in this nutty business.”
“Where’d you learn to speak Spanish, Chief?” Clete asked.
“I did two hitches at Cavite, in the Philippines,” Schultz replied, winked, and added, “I had what we called a sleeping dictionary.”
“Perhaps you would like a beer?” Enrico asked.
“I’ve never been known to turn one down,” Chief Schultz said.
Three bottles of cerveza and a perfectly cooked T-bone steak later, Chief Schultz turned to Staff Sergeant Ettinger.
“You’re the radio guy, Sergeant, right?”
Ettinger nodded.
“What do you know about nighttime radiation in the twenty-meter band?”
“A little.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of a Collins Model Six?”
“I had a look at the schematics,” Ettinger said. “It has a very interesting secondary exciter.”
“How ‘interesting’?”
“The theory is interesting,” Ettinger said. “But I wondered about harmonic synchronization before crystal temperature stabilization.”
“The way it comes from the factory, harmonic synchronization’s not worth a shit,” Chief Schultz said, the tone of his voice making clear his relief at finding a peer on whom he would not be wasting his valuable time, effort, and knowledge. “Somebody get me a sheet of paper and a pencil, and I’ll show you the fix I come up with.”
From that point onward, Clete and Tony understood not one word of their conversation. Chief Schultz and Staff Sergeant Ettinger, talking in tongues, filled sheet after sheet of paper with esoteric schematic drawings of radio circuitry and mathematical formulae, determining among other things the optimum length and orientation of the antennae that would be erected on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.
At twenty past one, one of the maids came into the kitchen and handed Clete a large, well-sealed envel
ope, bearing the return address of the Anglo-Argentine Bank on Calle San Martín.
“A messenger brought this for you, Señor Frade,” the maid said.
Clete opened the envelope. It contained documents, each stamped, embossed, and signed with flowing signatures in several places by various functionaries. These documents stated that the financial obligations incurred by one Señor Francisco Manuel Alberghoni in connection with the Ristorante Napoli and associated property in the District of Boca, Buenos Aires, to the Anglo-Argentine Bank, S.A., had been satisfied in full by the transfer this date of certain funds to the Anglo-Argentine Bank, S.A., from the funds held by the Anglo-Argentine Bank, S.A., in trust for one Señor Cletus Howell Frade, of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, Pila, Province of Buenos Aires, thus relieving the original guarantor of the aforementioned financial obligations of the aforementioned Señor Alberghoni, one Señor Enrico Mallín, of the Sociedad Mercantil de Importación Productos Petrolíferos, Edificio Kavanagh, Buenos Aires, of any further financial liability of any kind with regard to the Anglo-American Bank, S.A.
“I’ll be damned!” Clete said.
“What is that?”
“You owe me thirteen grand, Tony,” Clete said. “Your girlfriend’s father is off the hook.”
“Jesus, Clete,” Tony said. “Thanks. Can I see that?”
Clete hesitated, then remembering Tony’s very poor Spanish, handed it to him.
“I can’t read this,” Tony said after a moment.
“Don’t bother,” Clete said. “Take my word for it.”
Tony looked at him curiously.
“Sometimes when you turn over a rock,” Clete said, “slimy things crawl out. It’s all done, Tony. All you have to do is come up with the thirteen grand to pay me back.” He retrieved the stack of paper from Tony and smiled at him.
Tony looked distressed.
“Something else on your mind?” Clete asked. “Don’t tell me you’ve had second thoughts about your lady friend?”
“No,” Tony said quickly. “Nothing like that. Jesus! She’s really a nice girl, Clete.”
“But?”
“Lieutenant, I’ve been thinking,” Tony said uncomfortably.
“Lieutenant”? We’re back to “Lieutenant”?
“Second Lieutenants are not expected to think, Lieutenant,” Clete said. “I thought you knew that.”
“I don’t want to sound like a wiseass.”
“Out with it, Tony.”
“I don’t think your idea of making that fucking ship turn on its searchlights by shooting at it with a .30-caliber Browning makes a whole lot of sense, Lieutenant, is what I’ve been thinking.”
Clete made a “come, let’s have it” gesture with his hands.
“For one thing, you’re going to have to get pretty close to it to hit it, and I don’t know how the hell you plan to mount a machine gun in that little airplane, but it’s not going to be easy.”
That problem is actually Number Two, or maybe even Number One, on my list of Problems to Be Resolved.
“And you said the Reine de la Mer has .50s, and probably twenty-millimeter Bofors. All you’re going to do is make a goddamned target out of us.”
That thought, Lieutenant Pelosi, has run through my mind once or twice.
“Us?” Clete asked.
“I figured I’d be working the machine gun,” Tony said.
Actually, I was thinking Enrico would.
Clete said that aloud: “Tony, I thought I’d take Enrico with me. I haven’t figured out how to mount a machine gun in the Beechcraft. The .30 Browning may not work. We may have to use a BAR”—a Browning Automatic Rifle, a fully automatic shoulder weapon. “Enrico’s a BAR expert; they’ve had in them in the Argentinean Army for years.”
“And what am I supposed to do,” Tony asked indignantly, “sit around somewhere with my thumb up my ass while you’re off in the airplane?”
“I was thinking you could back up Dave,” Clete said, aware that it was a lame reply. “You were going to tell me what you were thinking, Tony.”
“Why do we have to fuck around making the ship illuminate herself? Why don’t we illuminate the sonofabitch ourselves?”
“How?”
“I don’t know. But I figured I’d ask the Chief here. Maybe they’ve got something like an illuminating round.”
“How would we fire it?” Clete asked. “You need a cannon to fire an illuminating round.”
“We have Very pistols,” Chief Schultz said, turning from the table to join the conversation. Clete was surprised. He’d thought Schultz was deep in technical conversation with Ettinger.
“They’re signaling devices,” Clete argued. “Flares. The submarine’ll need more than that kind of light.”
“The five-inch rifles have an illuminating round,” Chief Schultz said.
“How does it work?” Tony asked.
“Time fuse. You set it. You fire the round. So many seconds later, a charge in the projectile detonates, shattering the shell casing. That releases the flare, which is on a parachute. I don’t know if the timing fuse sets off the magnesium, or what.”
“Can you take one of the rounds apart?” Tony asked. “Just get me the parachute and the magnesium flare?”
“I don’t see why not,” Chief Schultz said. “But you would need something to light the magnesium. You’re thinking of throwing it out of the airplane?”
Tony nodded.
“You’d have to figure out some way to ignite the magnesium,” Chief Schultz said. “Some kind of a detonator. And it would be touchy. If a magnesium flare went off inside the airplane, you’d really be in the deep shit.”
“I know about detonators,” Tony said. “What I need to know is whether the temperature and duration of burn of the detonators I have would be enough to set off the magnesium. Or maybe I could somehow rig the Navy detonator, the one inside the shell…or maybe set that off with one of my detonators.”
“When I finish with Dave here,” Chief Schultz said, “coming up with a list of what we need for the transmitter site, I’m going back aboard the Thomas. I could ask the Chief Ordnanceman.”
“It would be better if Tony talked to him, Chief,” Clete said. He looked at Enrico and switched to Spanish. “Without the clowns knowing of it, we’ll either have to take el Teniente Pelosi onto and then off the American destroyer, or bring one of Chief Schultz’s friends from the destroyer here and then back to the destroyer. Can you do that?”
“Sí, mi Teniente.”
[FIVE]
Centro Naval
Avenida Florida y Avenida Córdoba
Buenos Aires
1415 26 December 1942
Clete had to impatiently circle the block twice before he found a place to park the Buick. As he was putting the roof up, he saw the car which had followed him from Avenida Libertador drive up on the sidewalk at the next intersection. A furious policeman stalked over to it, and didn’t seem to be very appeased by the documents the driver showed him.
I wonder if they will follow me into the officers’ club, or just hang around outside?
He walked quickly through the entrance of the Centro Naval, then took the wide marble stairs to the second-floor dining room two at a time.
Peter von Wachtstein, Alicia Carzino-Cormano, and Dorotea Mallín were at a table at the far side of the room. Peter rose and waved his hand when he saw Clete.
The Virgin Princess smiled at him. His heart jumped.
“Ah, Señor Frade,” von Wachtstein said. “We were growing concerned.”
“Sorry to be late, mi Comandante. I had trouble finding a place to park.”
“Cletus, we were worried,” Dorotea said.
“Nothing to worry about, Princess.”
“Princess?” Alicia Carzino-Cormano said. “How sweet!”
No longer the Virgin Princess, but still the Princess, Clete thought as he kissed Dorotea’s extended cheek. He walked around the table, kissed Alicia’s extended cheek, then sat down bes
ide Dorotea. Her knee immediately found his.
“I took the liberty of ordering champagne,” von Wachtstein said. “But perhaps you would prefer corn whiskey?”
“Champagne will be fine, mi Comandante,” Clete said.
“I heard Americans prefer corn whiskey to everything else,” Peter said.
“And I heard that Germans preferred peppermint schnapps to all else,” Clete replied with an equally broad smile.
“You are, I hope, fully recovered from your injuries?” Peter asked. But before Clete could reply, a waiter appeared with a bottle of champagne in a cooler.
“I was not aware that Germans drink champagne in the middle of the day,” Clete said. “I would have thought beer.”
“Only fighter pilots,” Peter said. “Bomber pilots and other lesser mortals drink beer. Or peppermint schnapps.”
“Ah ha!”
“I have the feeling that you two are about to say something rude to each other that will ruin our lunch,” Alicia said.
“You have no cause for concern, my dear Alicia,” Peter said. “I am here under orders to be charming to Señor Frade.”
“Under orders, did you say, mi Comandante?” Clete asked.
“The orders of my superior, el Coronel Grüner, the Military Attaché, Señor Frade.”
“How extraordinary!” Clete replied as the waiter finished pouring the wine. “I can’t imagine why he would do that, mi Comandante.”
“I think he wants to make the point that we Germans had nothing to do with the unfortunate business at your home,” Peter said.
Clete felt a shoe push against his. He moved his foot. A moment later he felt Dorotea’s leg pressing against the back of his calf. He looked at her, then decided that he did not want to look at her.
“Apparently, your Colonel has not read Shakespeare, mi Comandante.”
“Shakespeare?”
“‘Methinks thy Colonel dost protest too much,’” Clete quoted.
“There is another line, Señor Frade,” Peter said. “I don’t know who wrote it, some Englishman probably. It had to do with the charge of the light brigade at Balaclava: ‘Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to ride…’ et cetera.”
“I believe it ends, ‘into the valley of death,’ mi Comandante,” Clete said.
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