"At least some of us do," Clete said. He met Graham's eyes for a moment, then said, evenly, "OK."
Graham nodded, then walked to the chest of drawers and laid his briefcase on it. He opened the briefcase, took out a form, closed the briefcase, laid the form on it, then took a fountain pen from his shirt pocket and extended it to Frade.
"Would you please sign this?"
Clete walked to the chest of drawers, then bent over Graham's briefcase and read the form.
SECRET
The United States of America
Office of Strategic Services
Washington, D.C.
Acknowledgment of Penalties Provided by the United
States Code for the Unauthorized Disclosure of National
Security Information
The undersigned acknowledges that the unauthorized disclosure of any information made available to him by any officer of the Office of Strategic Services will result in his prosecution under applicable provisions of the United States Code (including, where applicable. The Rules for the Governance of the Naval Services and/or The Manual For Courts-Martial, 1917) and that the penalties provided by law provide on conviction for the death penalty, or such other punishment as the court may decide.
Cletus Howell Frade
Executed at Los Angeles, California,
this 12th day of October 1942
Witness: :
A.F. Graham Colonel, USMCR
SECRET
He knew I was going to sign this, didn't he? My name and the date are already typed in on the form,Clete thought, and then, This is a little melodramatic, isn't it? And then, What the hell is the Office of Strategic Services?
After a moment's hesitation, he asked that aloud.
"What's the Office of Strategic Services?"
"Sign that, Lieutenant, or don't sign it," Graham said, and now there was a tone of annoyance in his voice. "Make up your mind."
Clete scrawled his name on the form. Graham retrieved the form and his pen and signed his name as witness, then put the form into his briefcase.
"OK, Lieutenant Frade, now you can ask questions," he said.
"What is the Office of Strategic Services?"
"An agency of the federal government which reports directly to the President. It performs what are somewhat euphemistically known as strategic services for the government."
"In other words, you're not going to tell me."
"You will be told what you have the need to know."
"What does the Office of Strategic Services want from me?"
"As you guessed, it wants you to go to Argentina. You will command a three-man team with the mission of taking out a merchant vessela merchant vessel of a neutral country, which we have determined is replenishing German submarines operating off the coast of South America. These submarines are doing considerable damage to shipping down there. We have to lessen that. But additionally, if you can find the time, we'd like you to dream up other ways to make things difficult for the Germans, the Italians, and the Japanese in Argentina."
"I don't know anything about... sabotage... that sort of thing."
"The other members of your team do," Graham interrupted.
"So the only reason I can think of that you want me for something like this is because of my father. You know my father is an Argentine ... Argentinean, right?"
"Of course. And you're right."
"Did you hear what I said a minute ago, that I wouldn't recognize my father if he walked into this room?"
"We know that too. Actually, we know more about you, Frade, than you probably know yourself. For example, are you aware that you hold Argentine citizenship?"
"I've always been told that Americans can't hold dual citizenship."
"So far as our government is concerned, we can't. So far as the Argentine government is concerned, you were born there, therefore you are an Argentine citizen."
"I haven't been there since I was an infant," Clete said.
"Yes, we know," Colonel Graham said, a touch of impatience in his voice.
He turned to his briefcase and came out with a five-by-seven-inch photograph and handed it to Clete.
El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade, Graham said, pronouncing it "Frah-day." "He looks rather like you, or vice versa, wouldn't you say?"
Clete examined the photograph. It showed a tall, solid-looking man with a full mustache. He was wearing a rather ornate, somewhat Germanic uniform, and stepping into the backseat of an open Mercedes-Benz sedan. In the background, against a row of Doric columns, was a rank of soldiers armed with rifles standing at what the Marine Corps would call "Parade Rest." Their uniforms, too, looked Germanic, and they were wearing German helmets.
Christ, he does look like me. Or, as Colonel Graham puts it, vice versa.
Well, it looks as if I will finally get to meet my father.
Do I want to? I don't feel a thing looking at this picture. He's a stranger. And he certainly has made it pretty goddamned plain that he doesn't give a damn for me. I'm the result of a youthful indiscretion, as far as he's concerned. Maybe, probably, even an embarrassment.
I wonder how he will react when I show up down there.
"Excuse me, Se?or. I'm sure you don't remember me, but I happen to be what they call the fruit of your loins."
"That was taken last summer," Graham said after a moment.
"Where?" Clete asked. "In Berlin?"
"No." Graham chuckled. "That's Buenos Aires. On Independence Day. Their Independence DayJuly ninth. They make just about as much of a fuss over theirs as we do over ours."
"I wasn't aware he was in the Army," Clete said.
"He's retired. Theypeople of a certain class and influence wear uniforms on suitable occasions. This was taken before the traditional Independence Day Mass at the Metropolitan Cathedral. Jos? de San Martin, El Ubertador, is buried there. Do you recognize the insignia? Your father's a colonel of cavalry. And like Generalleutnant Hasso von Manteuffel of the Wehrmacht and our own Major General George S. Patton, he's a graduate of the French Cavalry School at Saint-Cyr. And the German Kriegs-schule."
Clete looked at Colonel Graham and saw amusement in his eyes.
"And whose side is he on in this war?" Clete asked.
"Argentina, as you probably know, is trying to sit this war out as a neutral. Generally speaking, their Navy, which was trained by the English, is pro-Allies. The Army, which is trained by the Germans, is generally pro-Axis. We don't know exactly where your father stands. If, 'in addition to your other duties,' you could tilt him toward our side, that would be nice."
"Is that the real reason you want me to go down there? To try to work on my father?"
"No. As I said, if you could tilt your father toward us, that would be a bonus. But you're being sent down there to take out the 'neutral' submarine replenishment vessel. What we're hopingyour father is a very powerful man down thereis that the BIS ..."