As the convoy of staff cars rolled through the gates of the hospital, Clete had several thoughts, some of them irreverent and on the edge of unkind.
There was absolutely no reason for all these brass hats to be following them. But they had apparently been told to accompany Ramirez to the Panagra terminal to meet him, and nobody had the balls to leave without further orders. And the term "brass hat" was really more appropriate here, where the headgear of the senior brass was both enormous and heavily encrusted with gilt decoration, than it was in the States, where most general officers he had seen had worn soft fore-and-aft caps.
I'll bet those hats weigh more than a steel helmet. These guys probably go home at night with one hell of a headache, groan loudly as they take off their caps, and then have their wives massage their necks.
The guards at the gates, wearing German-style steel helmets, wide-eyed at the parade of brass hats in their cars, snapped to the Argentine equivalent of Present Armsholding their Mauser rifles vertically, at arm's length, in front of them, where Marines held their rifles so close to their chests that they nearly touched their noses.
I was no better. The first time I saw a general up close I was a little surprised he didnt have a halo.
This place is bigger than I remember. What the hell, it's the Argentine equivalent of Walter Reed Army Hospital in Washington, so why not? The difference, of course, is that probably the only wounded soldier in the whole place is Enrico. Unless some Argentine boot shot himself in the foot on the Known Distance Range.
"Mi General," Clete said, turning to Ramirez. "I know that you and your officers are busy men. I can manage by myself from here."
"Se?or Frade, with your kind permission, my officers and I would be honored to accompany you to where your father lies in honor in the Edificio Libertador."
"Your kindness, mi General, honors both me and my father."
Ramirez nodded and then raised his left hand in a gesture Clete had learned was common in Argentina and signified, "it's nothing," or "don't be silly."
The Mercedes pulled up before the main entrance of the white masonry nine-story building. Two helmeted guards brought their Mauser bolt-action rifles to Present Arms. Ramirez's aide-de-camp jumped out of the front seat and opened the rear door for Clete. Meanwhile, a gray-haired man in uniform trousers and a white medical jacket he was still in the process of buttoning came through the ten-foot-high bronze and glass doorway.
He saluted Ramirez.
"A sus ?rdenes, mi General," he said. "I had no word"
"Se?or Frade," Ramirez interrupted him, "may I present el Coronel-Medico Orrico, who commands Dr. Cosme Argerich Military Hospital? Coronel, this is Se?or Frade."
Orrico offered his hand.
"I'm sorry we have to meet under such a tragic circumstance, Mr. Frade," he said in perfect, British English. "I was privileged to call your father my friend. Please accept my sincere condolences."
"Thank you very much, Doctor," Clete said.
"Mr. Frade wishes to see Suboficial Mayor Rodriguez," Ramirez announced.
"Of course," Orrico said, and motioned for them to enter the building.
"How is he?" Clete asked.
"Very fortunate." Orrico replied. "It could have been, should have been, a good deal worse."
"Speak Spanish, please," Ramirez ordered curtly, then looked at Clete and smiled. "My English, you will forgive me, is quite bad."
"Not at all," Clete replied in Spanish.
They boarded an elevator and rode to the sixth floor. When the door opened, a man in civilian clothing was sitting in a very uncomfortable-looking upright chair. Hanging from the back of the chair was a .45 automatic pistol in a shoulder holster. He stood up and came to attention.
A cop,Clete decided. One of el Teniente Coronel Martin's men ? Or Polic?a Federal?
Orrico led them down a wide corridor to a room, outside of which sat another guard, this one with his .45 barely concealed in a holster on his belt. And he, too, came to an Attention-like position as Orrico pushed open the door.
A hospital bed, cranked up so that its occupant could sit up, held a heavy-set, closely shaven and shorn man in his forties. He was bare-chested, and there were bandages, some of them showing blood, on his chest and arms. His head was heavily bandaged, including one covering his left eye. He was Enrico Rodriguez, late Suboficial Mayor of the Husares de Pueyrred?n cavalry regiment of the Argentine Army.
When he saw Clete, he dropped the newspaper he was reading and tried to get out of bed.
"Stay where you are, Enrico," Clete ordered, walking quickly to him.
"Mi Teniente," Rodriguez said, his voice breaking, "I have failed el Coronel. I have failed you!"
"Don't be absurd," Clete said. He turned. "May I have a moment alone with the Suboficial Mayor, please?"
"Of course," Orrico said.
Clete had the feeling that Ramirez didn't like the idea, but he left the room with the doctor.
Suboficial Mayor Rodriguez was now sobbing.
Clete put his arms around him, felt his throat tighten and his eyes water.
"What happened, Enrico?"
"They were waiting for us about two kilometers from the house at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, where the road curves sharply?"
Clete nodded to show he knew where Rodriguez meant.
"They put a beef, a carcass, in the road. When I slowed to go around it, they opened fire. . . ."
"Banditos?"
Rodriguez snorted contemptuously.
"Banditos like the 'burglars' on Libertador," he said.
"They were killed, I'm told, by the Provincial Police."
"They were killed so they could not be questioned by the clowns," Rodriguez said. He customarily referred to the agents of the Bureau of Internal Security as "the clowns."
"Go on."
"Thompsons, I think," Rodriguez said, professionally. "There was too much fire for pistols. I was hit. . ."he pointed to his head and the bandage ". . . the bullet must have hit the window post first, or just grazed me."
"Or hit your head and bounced off. My father always said you were the most hardheaded man he had ever known," Clete joked.
"The doctor told me the bullet dug a trench as deep as a fingernail. There was a lot of blood. They probably thought I was dead . . ."
"You were lucky," Clete said.
". . . and the car ran off the road and hit a tree. And when I came to"he broke into chest-heaving sobs again"el Coronel was in heaven with the angels, and your blessed mother and my sister."
Clete was surprised at the emotion that came over him. He hugged the older man tightly and only after a long moment found his voice.
"Enrico, mi amigo," he heard himself saying, "in the Bible it is written that there is no greater love than he who lays down his life for another. You did that. You failed neither my father nor me."
I sounded like an Argentine when I said that. I never said anything so corny on Guadalcanal, and Enrico is not the first weeping man I've tried to talk out of feeling responsible for someone else's death. But that came out naturally. What is that, my Argentine genes?
"And in the Bible it says, 'an eye for an eye,' mi Teniente," Rodriguez said.
"I wish you'd stop calling me that," Clete said.
"Whatever you wish, Se?or Cletus."
"How about 'Clete'?"
"Whatever you wish, Se?or Clete."