“That’s the band of the Chapel of Our Lady of the Miracles,” Frade replied. “When I found out that most of its members were retired members of the Húsares de Pueyrredón regimental band, I decided to give them a chance.”
Graham shook his head and smiled. He knew that Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo was so large and so far from the nearest town and had so many workers that it had its own church, complete with two priests and a cemetery. And he was not surprised that El Coronel Frade had found employment for old soldiers of his regiment. In many ways, the large estancias were feudal fiefdoms, with El Patron—now Cletus Frade—acting as paterfamilias.
By the time they had reached the row of chairs, the band had segued into another march.
“What the hell is that?” Graham asked.
“ ‘Semper Paratus,’ the Coast Guard song,” Frade replied. “I’m surprised you didn’t know.”
“Where the hell did you get the music?”
“I told Pelosi to tell Delojo I needed it. He finally found it somewhere in the embassy’s storage. I don’t think they used it much; I don’t think the box the music came in ever had been opened.”
“Did you tell Commander Delojo what you wanted it for?”
Frade took a swig of beer, smiled, then shook his head.
By the time everyone had settled into their seats, the band had made another segue, this time to “The Aggie War Hymn.”
Frade and Graham immediately stood. Technical Sergeant Ferris and Lieutenant Sawyer, seeing this, looked at them curiously.
“Atten-hut!” Graham barked. Everyone complied.
“And stay that way!” Frade snarled.
Next came “The Marines’ Hymn” and after that the opening bars of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” The landing light of the Lodestar came on, illuminating the national colors on a pole, which hadn’t been visible before.
Graham put his hand over his heart. Then he saw that Frade was saluting.
You’re not supposed to salute in civilian clothing.
Then he saw that all the others were saluting.
Graham felt his eyes water.
Well, goddamn it, why not?
Civilian clothes or not, these are warriors on a field of battle every bit as dangerous as Guadalcanal or the skies over Germany.
Graham moved his right hand, the fingers now stiff and together, from over his heart to his eyebrow.
When the band of the Chapel of Our Lady of the Miracles had concluded their rendition of the National Anthem of the United States of America, they were given a round of hearty applause. Someone—Graham suspected Lieutenant Pelosi—whistled very loudly and shrilly through his teeth.
The Lodestar’s landing light went out.
“I didn’t have the manpower to present the colors,” Frade said. “But that seemed to work pretty well, didn’t it?”
When Graham was sure he had control of his voice, he said, “Well done, Major Frade.”
“I also couldn’t lay my hands on a Marine Corps flag,” Frade said. “And God knows I tried. If I could have found one, I’d have put it beside the flag so the Lodestar could have lit it up, too.”
“Semper fi, Major Frade,” Graham said, hoping that Frade hadn’t picked up on his throat-tightened voice.
“All right, Pelosi,” Frade ordered. “Get your show off the goddamn dime!”
Graham saw Pelosi run across the runway into the darkness. A moment after he disappeared, a skyrocket raced into the night sky and burst into fireballs.
“Where did you get the fireworks?” Graham asked as another skyrocket went off.
“No problem. They use them down here for everything from New Year’s Eve to baby christenings.”
Graham said what he was thinking: “You’d have made a pretty good company commander, Frade.”
“If that’s an offer, Colonel, I can be packed in no more than three minutes.”
“Just as soon as the Corps gives me the regiment I want and so richly deserve, I’ll send for you.”
Frade chuckled, and handed Graham a fresh bottle of Quilmes beer.
The celebration at the airstrip lasted another hour. The chapel band played popular music, American and Argentine, and Lieutenant and Mrs. Pelosi danced the tango to the great delight of the others. Graham remembered how embarrassed Emelia had been when he had to explain to her what Mrs. Astor, the Anglo-American socialite, had meant when she described the tango as a “naval engagement without seamen.” María Teresa Pelosi reminded him more and more of Emelia Graham.
Graham decided early on that the talk he had to have with Frade could— and should—wait until morning. Not only would it more than likely be confrontational and unpleasant and destroy the good feeling celebrating the Fourth of July on the Argentine pampas had caused, but Frade had never been without a bottle of beer from the moment they had reached the ranch. It would obviously be better to have their meeting bright-eyed and sober in the morning.
[TWO]
As they walked into the house, Frade took Graham’s arm.
“Why don’t we go into the study?”
“How about in the morning?”
“Now would be better,” Frade said.
He started walking down the long, wide corridor toward what had been his father’s office, with Enrico trailing after him. After a moment’s hesitation, Graham followed them.
When Frade reached the door, he signaled to Enrico to sit in a leather armchair outside the office, then unlocked the door and went in. As Graham followed him inside, he saw that Frade had gone to a table lined with whiskey bottles.
“Close the door, please,” Frade said, then announced: “I’m having scotch. What can I fix for you?”
“I’ll have a scotch,” Graham said. “But we’re back to wouldn’t it be better to do this in the morning? When you’re . . . clearheaded?”
Frade looked at him for a moment until he understood, then chuckled.
“This is my first today, Colonel. There was water in my beer bottle. I didn’t want to set the wrong example for the troops.”
“Okay. Sorry. That puts us back to my thought that you would have been a good company commander.”
Frade didn’t reply. He handed Graham a stiff drink, then sat down at what had been his father’s desk.
He looked at Graham for a long moment, then shrugged.
“What do you want to hear first?” Frade said.
“Isn’t that obvious? What you made me come all the way down here to hear in person.”
“I thought maybe you’d ask, ‘So how’s Galahad these days?’ ”
“Okay, so how’s Galahad these days?”
“Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein is fine, thank you. He did not have to go to Valhalla after spreading himself—as an honorable officer and gentleman—all over the runway at El Palomar.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Frade did not respond directly. Instead, he said, “And when he told me why he was still among us, it came out that Admiral Wilhelm Canaris is one of the good guys—”
“Oh, come on, Frade!” Graham interrupted, thinking, My God, where did he get that? “The head of the Abwehr is a good guy? Somebody’s pulling your chain!”
“—which is why I wanted you to come down here,” Frade went on, immune to Graham’s sarcasm. “I didn’t want to send that in a message, for the obvious reasons. You really never know who’s reading your radio traffic, or whether somebody in the State Department is reading stuff in the diplomatic pouch before they send it over to the OSS.”
Graham looked at him in disbelief.
It was possible that something—anything from a train or airplane crash to a heart attack—would remove William J. Donovan from command of the OSS. That contingency had to be planned for. An immediate successor— someone who knew the most secret of all the secrets—would have to be named.
Two men had been selected.
One was Allen W. Dulles, who was running OSS operations in Europe from Switzerland. Dulles was the archetypical WASP Washington insider. A Princeton graduate, he was the grandson of John W. Foster, who had been secretary of State under President Benjamin Harrison, and the nephew of Robert Lansing, who had been President Woodrow Wilson’s secretary of State.