[THREE]
Estancia Casa Chica Near Tandil Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 0650 20 July 1943
“Since my husband devoutly believes that enormous breakfasts are a hallowed American custom,” Doña Dorotea announced brightly at breakfast, “I have done my best to be a good wife. There is grapefruit juice and milk, toast, coffee, and ham steaks. And as I understand that those of your religious persuasion aren’t allowed to eat pork, I had the cook grill some steak to go with the eggs. I hope that will be satisfactory.”
“Anything’s fine, Dorotea,” Stein said.
“I thought the least I could do,”Lla Señora Frade said, trying to smile brightly, “was feed the condemned men a last hearty meal.”
Clete said, “Baby, nobody’s going to die—”
“At least not today, probably,” she interrupted.
“—but I admit there is a good chance we’ll be playing cops and robbers later this morning.”
Stein suddenly laughed. “Oh, I wish I could be there to see Fischer getting on his first horse and riding off on the pampas. ‘Hi, ho, Silver, away!’ ” He paused, and then went on “That probably should be, ‘Oi veh, Silverman, away!’ ”
“Sergeants are not allowed to mock commissioned officers and gentlemen such as myself, Sergeant Stein,” Fischer said good-naturedly. “Perhaps you should keep that in mind.”
“You know, when they sent the Lone Ranger movie down here, they had to change Tonto’s name,” Stein said.
Frade said, “You’re a fountain of Hollywood information, aren’t you, Siggy?”
“I shit you not, Major,” Stein said. “ ‘Tonto’ means ‘stupid’ in Spanish.”
“That’s right, it does,” Dorotea said, and giggled. “ ‘The Masked Rider of the Plains, and his faithful Indian companion, Stupid.’ ”
Everyone started laughing.
Jesus, Frade thought, the laughter is coming close to being hysterical.
I’d probably put them over the edge if I mentioned the name of where we’ve built the airfield for South American Airways—Morón.”
Then Frade wondered if he was the only one thinking that nervousness— hell, not only that but fear and terror, too—was causing the hilarity.
As they were getting in the Horch, Sargento Rodolfo Gómez walked up to Frade.
“May I have a moment, Don Cletus?”
Frade followed him out of earshot of the people in and around the car.
“What’s on your mind, Rodolfo?”
“So you will not worry about Sargento Stein, Don Cletus . . .”
“Worry about him? Why?”
“Enrico says he does not think Sargento Stein has it in him to kill the Nazi bitch.”
“I think Enrico is wrong, Rodolfo. And I don’t want either of the Germans killed unless it is necessary.”
“I understand, Don Cletus. But if I see that Sargento Stein thinks he has to do it, I will do it for him. My conscience will not bother me later. Enrico is like my brother. His sister, may she be resting in peace with all the angels, was like my sister. You understand, Don Cletus?”
“I understand, Rodolfo, and I thank you.”
“Que Dios lo acompañe, Don Cletus.”
[FOUR]
Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo Near Pila Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 0915 20 July 1943
They had gone a little over a mile onto Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo when a gaucho, where the road passed close to a thick grove of ancient eucalyptus trees, moved his horse onto the road.
Frade braked the Horch with a sinking feeling. There was no immediate danger, but he felt sure the gaucho had been sent to tell him that at the big house were agents of the Bureau of Internal Security—or the Policía Federal— and that he was about to have to start running.
If not running for his life, then running away from spending a long time in a miserable prison cell.
The gaucho politely nodded when Frade had stopped, but didn’t say anything.
Frade looked into the grove, expecting to see saddled horses. What he saw in addition to three saddled horses and three horse-borne gauchos and the Model A Ford pickup that Lieutenant Oscar Schultz, USN, used for his transportation over the pampas was Schultz himself, wearing his gaucho outfit and walking toward the road.
Clete turned off the ignition. If he was going to go riding off into the pampas, Dorotea would drive the car to the big house.
Dorotea reached for his hand and held it.
“Well, I’ll tell you what’s happened,” Schultz said, quite unnecessarily.
“Thanks,” Clete replied sarcastically, and was immediately sorry, even though the sarcasm had sailed over Schultz’s head.
“Delgano is at the big house,” Schultz said. “He’s been there since half past seven. He’s alone, and nobody else has come onto the estancia.”
“He’s alone?”
Schultz nodded.
“They told him you and Dorotea were off somewhere on the estancia.”
“He didn’t think that was odd?”
“Your butler—what’s his name?”
“Antonio,” Clete furnished.
“Lavallé,” Dorotea furnished.
Antonio Lavallé had been El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade’s butler, at both the “money sewer” mansion on Avenida Coronel Díaz in Buenos Aires and the big house at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, for longer than Clete and Dorotea were old.
“Yeah,” Schultz continued, “he managed, without coming right out and saying it, to tell him that you and Dorotea went off to find a little romantic privacy, if you take my meaning.”
“And?” Clete said.
“He asked when you would be back, and Antonio said, ‘Probably before lunch.’ Delgano said that he really had to see you, and that he would just wait.”
“And?”
“Antonio gave him coffee and rolls, and according to the last word I got, Delgano’s sitting on your verandah waiting for you to come home.”
“When was your last word?”
“Just before we heard you’d come onto the estancia. Maybe ten minutes ago.”
Frade, obviously in thought, didn’t reply.
“Come on, my darling,” Dorotea said. “Give us your worst-case scenario; you’re very good at that.”
“Okay. I will. He’s going to tell me that the Bureau of Internal Security would prefer that we handle the unfortunate situation in a civilized manner.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning he would rather that I just get in his car with him and go to Buenos Aires, thereby avoiding a shoot-out with my army of gauchos.”
“That’s absurd,” Dorotea said.
Clete didn’t think she really thought it was absurd.
“Possible, but I don’t think so,” Schultz said.
“Why not?” Frade challenged.
“I just don’t think so,” Schultz said. “I think if that was the case, he’d have at least brought one guy with him.” He paused, then explained: “In case you changed your mind on the way to Buenos Aires.”
“So what’s he doing here? Just paying a social call?” Frade asked.
“I think you have to find out,” Schultz said. “You open to a suggestion?”
“Wide open.”
“I take Fischer with me. Can you handle a Thompson, Fischer?”
“No,” Fischer said simply. “The only weapons I’ve ever fired was in Basic Officers’ School—the .45 and the M1 Garand.”
“Okay, I’ll give you my .45,” Schultz said, and took his pistol from his waistband. “Watch it; it’s locked and cocked.”
Fischer looked at him in confusion.
“All you have to do is take the safety off,” Schultz said. “Push this down.” He demonstrated. “There’s a round in the chamber, ready to fire.”
“Okay,” Fischer said without much enthusiasm as Schultz locked the weapon and handed it to him.
“Now that he’s got a loaded pistol, what’s he going to do with it?” Frade asked.
“He’s coming with me in the truck. To the house. Give us a ten-minute head start, then drive slow. See what Delgano’s up to. If he gives you the ‘come with me’ business, you make a signal—scratch your ear, something like that—and we come out of the garden and tie him up. Then you take off.”