“I didn’t mean to suggest, Herr Kapitän, that I was questioning your orders. I merely was stating that they were highly unusual.”
“In other words, you don’t want me to radio Berlin?”
“No, thank you. That won’t be necessary.”
“When you have selected the men you’ll be taking with us, Herr Sturmbannführer, ” von Dattenberg said, “please instruct them that they may bring aboard one extra uniform, two changes of linen, one spare pair of shoes, their toilet kit, and such personal items as they may be able to hold in their armpit.”
"I don’t believe I can get even my smallest suitcase under my armpit,” Kötl said, smiling at his wit.
“And no suitcases, Herr Sturmbannführer. Space is at a premium aboard submarines.”
[THREE]
Third Floor Lounge Hipódromo de San Isidro Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1255 7 July 1943
Humberto Valdez Duarte, a tall, slender, superbly tailored man of forty-seven, with a hawk nose and, plastered to his skull, a thick growth of black hair, walked into the lounge and looked around until he saw Cletus Frade, then walked quickly toward him.
The Hipódromo de San Isidro—the racetrack—provided seats in six stands for a hundred thousand spectators. Today, there was perhaps half that number of racing aficionados seated in them.
The Third Floor Lounge was reserved for members, and thus sat atop the members stand. Its plate-glass windows offered a clear view of the finish line and of the entire 2.8-kilometer racing oval.
Frade, wearing a necktie and tweed sports coat and slacks, was sitting alone at a table near the windows. He was puffing on a large black cigar and his hand rested on a long-stemmed wineglass.
As Duarte approached the table, he fondly called out, “Cletus!”
Frade smiled at the voice, stood up and put out his hand—then retracted it. He suddenly remembered he was in Argentina, where male relatives and good friends exchange kisses, not shake hands.
Frade thought of Humberto Duarte as both a good friend and a relative. Duarte was married to his father’s sister and had proved to be a good friend.
They embraced. Duarte detected that Cletus was uncomfortable with the physical greeting but not offended.
“How’s my Tía Beatrice?” Frade dutifully asked.
Beatrice Frade de Duarte had, as Frade somewhat unkindly thought of it, gone around the bend on learning that her only child had gotten himself killed at Stalingrad. She was under the direct attention of a psychiatrist—almost around the clock—and in a tranquilized fog. Seeing Frade, who was the same age as her late son and alive, usually made her condition worse.
Duarte’s face contorted, and he held up both hands in a helpless gesture.
Before Frade could say anything, Duarte asked, “Have any trouble finding it?”
He sat down, and raised his arm to catch the attention of a waiter.
“Finding it?” Frade said. “No. Enrico knew where it was. Getting in posed a couple of problems.”
Duarte frowned. “How so?”
“When I went to the gate to this place, a guard asked if he could help me, so I said, ‘How do I get to the Third Floor Lounge?’ He put his nose in the air and asked why I wished to go to the Third Floor Lounge. I didn’t like his attitude, so I told him I wanted to get a couple of drinks and maybe pick up some girls. Then he put his nose up even higher and told me that was quite impossible, the Third Floor Lounge was for members only. I asked him if he had a list of members, and if so to have a look at it, as I thought I might be a member. And gave him my name. So he stiffly told me to wait, please, and disappeared. Then he showed up with two other guys—they were wearing dinner jackets and looked like a headwaiter and his assistant. The older of them asked me if I was really Don Cletus Frade of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. I said, ‘That’s me.’ They were considering this when Enrico, having parked the car, showed up—”
“Cletus, you didn’t try to bring Enrico up here!” Duarte said, chuckling.
“Yeah, I did,” Frade said, and discreetly pointed to a table at the side of the room. Enrico Rodríguez was sitting there with what looked like an untouched glass of beer. A raincoat covered a long, thin object that could have been a shotgun. “Actually, if the headwaiter hadn’t recognized Enrico, I’d still be downstairs arguing with him.”
“But they did let you in,” Duarte said, shaking his head.
“Only after I was so kind as to put this on,” Frade said, lifting a necktie.
“You came here without a necktie?” Duarte said, chuckling again.
“I almost came in khaki pants and a polo shirt, but Dorotea wouldn’t let me out of the house that way.”
“Cletus, you are impossible. A delight, but impossible.”
Two men in dinner jackets were now hovering near the table.
“Don Humberto,” the older of the two said. “It is so nice to see you, sir.”
“Manuel, I don’t think you know my nephew, do you? Cletus, this is Señor Estano, the general manager.”
“I don’t believe I have had that privilege,” Estano said. “I regret, Don Cletus, the difficulty earlier. I can assure you it will not happen again.”
“And I assure you, señor, that I shall never appear at the door again without a necktie,” Frade said, putting out his hand. “I’m sorry about that.”
“They should have known,” Estano said, nodding at one of the oil paintings on the wall. “The physical resemblance is undeniable.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” Duarte said, then added, “I’ll have some of whatever Don Cletus is drinking.”
“What else would he—or you—drink but a pinot noir from Bodegas de Mendoza?”
“Indeed, what else?” Duarte said.
“This is a ’39,” Estano said.
He snatched a glass and then a wine bottle from the waiter.
“We still have several cases here, and there’s more on Calle Florida, of course.”
He poured wine into the glass and Duarte sipped it appreciatively.
“Very nice,” he said.
“I, from time to time, have a small sip myself,” Estano said. “Would you like menus now, or perhaps wait a few minutes?”
“Give us a few minutes, please,” Duarte said as Estano added wine to both their glasses.
After Estano had left, Cletus said, “Okay. You want to explain all that to me?”
“All what?”
“Why was he so sure we would drink this? I told the waiter to bring me a nice, not-too-sweet red.”
“You own Bodegas de Mendoza,” Duarte said. “Which is well known— perhaps even famous—for the quality of its pinot noir. And ’39 was a particularly good year.”
“I thought I owned a vineyard called Bodegas Frade.”
“You do. You own both. Actually, you own four vineyards.”
“Well, that explains that, doesn’t it? And why are there cases of it on Calle Florida?”
“Because that’s where the Jockey Club is.”
“Oh, yeah. My father took me there. Fantastic place.”
“You haven’t been back?”
Frade shook his head.
“Your father must have arranged for your membership right after you came down here.”
"I suppose. I know he did that at the Círculo Militar.”
“We could have had lunch there,” Duarte said. “Either the main club, or the Círculo Militar.”
It was a question Frade elected not to answer. “And what was that business about the ‘undeniable physical resemblance’?”
“Six men are credited with founding the Jockey Club, in 1876, in a restaurant called Foyot de Paris. Your great-grandfather, second portrait from the left, was one of them.”
“Oh, boy!”
“And now may I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Why the sudden interest in the Hipódromo de San Isidro?”
“That was Dorotea’s idea. I asked her where we could have lunch so that (a) I could be pretty sure the guy at the next table was not working for El Colonel Martín, and (b) I would not run into my Tío Juan. She first said at the Jockey Club, then changed her mind and said here would be even better.”