“All day?”
“From five.”
“What about between now and five?”
“It’s not a very good idea.”
“Please!”
“It’s crazy.”
“Let me at least buy you a cup of coffee.”
“I should not do this, but…”
“But what?”
“You come here at nine-thirty tomorrow. We take the train to El Tigre. We have a cup of coffee, maybe a little sandwich, and then we come back. OK.”
What the hell is El Tigre? Tony wondered. “The Tiger”? What the hell does that mean? Who the hell cares?
“Nine-thirty,” he said. “I’ll be here.”
“It’s crazy,” she said one last time, and then turned and went up the stairs.
[FIVE]
4730 Avenida Libertador
Buenos Aires
0925 14 December 1942
First Lieutenant Cletus Howell Frade, USMCR, opened his eyes and found himself staring at Hauptmann Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein of the Luftwaffe, who was in a khaki uniform. Clete noticed the swastika on his pilot’s wings. It made him uncomfortable.
“What the hell do you want?” he inquired, somewhat less than graciously.
“It is almost half past nine,” von Wachtstein said.
“What the hell are you, a talking clock? Get the hell out of here!”
“There is an officer here to move me to a hotel,” Peter said.
Clete sat up. His brain banged against the interior of his cranium. His dry tongue scraped against the cobblestones on his teeth. His stomach groaned. His eyes hurt.
“What did you say?” h
e asked.
Behind Peter, he saw Señora Pellano carrying a tray on which was a coffeepot, a large glass of orange juice, and a rose in a small crystal vase. She was smiling at him maternally.
“Buenos días, Señor Cletus,” she said.
Christ, that’s all I need. A smiling face and a goddamned rose!
“Buenos días, Señora Pellano,” he said, and smiled. It hurt to smile.
“There is an officer here, a Coronel Kleber. He is to move me to a hotel,” Peter said. “He claims it is to make me more convenient to your uncle’s house. But I think someone finally remembered that you are living here.”