“I am so sorry,” Frade said.
He sounds as if he means that.
“And my aunt Martha is well, thank you.”
Frade nodded. “You say you are working for your grandfather?”
“The U.S. government seems to think that somebody down here is diverting Howell petroleum products to the Germans. I was sent down to make sure they aren’t.”
“I can’t believe Enrico Mallín would be involved in that kind of thing,” Frade said. “Not only is he an honorable man, but I’m sure his sympathies lie with the English and the Americans in this war.”
Well, I guess I am a pretty good liar, after all. He swallowed that hook, line, and sinker. And where do your sympathies lie, Dad?
“I don’t think he is either,” Clete said. “But the deal the Old Man worked out with the government meant sending me down here to make sure he isn’t.”
“I am glad you are here,” Frade said. “To finally meet you.”
“Yeah, me too,” Clete said.
“Perhaps there will be an opportunity for us to know one another,” Frade said.
“Yeah,” Clete said. “Maybe there will be.”
“But the immediate problem before us is lunch,” Frade said. He pushed his glass of bourbon away from him. “I have had enough whiskey.”
He beckoned, rather imperiously, for the bartender to bring the bill. When it came, he scrawled his name across it.
“Gracias, mi Colonel,” the barman said.
“The Centro Naval—the Navy Officers’ Club—is not very far from here. They usually serve a very nice lunch,” Frade said. “How does that sound, Cletus?”
“That sounds fine.”
“Well, then, I suggest we go,” Frade said.
Clete slid off the barstool and followed his father up the circular staircase to the lobby. They were halfway across the lobby when his father suddenly veered to the right, toward the concierge’s desk.
It looks like he’s chasing that guy.
Frade caught up with a man who pretended, not too successfully, to be both delighted and surprised to see him. They shook hands, and then Frade propelled him across the lobby to where Clete stood.
“Coronel, I want you to meet my son. Cletus, this is Teniente Coronel Martín, of the Internal Security Service.”
Teniente Coronel Martín could not conceal his discomfort.
“How do you do?” he said in English.
“A sus órdenes, mi Coronel,” Clete replied.
“Welcome to Argentina,” Martín said, still in English.
“Thank you,” Clete said, switching to English.
There was a long, awkward silence.
“Well, it was very nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Frade,” Martín said. “And to see you, mi Coronel.”
Frade nodded coldly but didn’t speak.