ined 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, Señor. 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 Day—July 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. They—people of a certain class and influence-wear uniforms on suitable occasions. This was taken before the traditional Independence Day Mass at the Metropolitan Cathedral. José de San Martín, El Libertador, 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 Kriegsschule.”
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 hoping—your father is a very powerful man down there—is that the BIS…”
“The what?”
“The Bureau of Internal Security, which is sort of their FBI, except that it’s under the Ministry of Defense. They’re very good, I understand, trained by the Germans. What we’re hoping is that once the BIS find out your father is el Coronel Frade, they may elect to be a little less enthusiastic, a little less efficient in investigating you, than they would ordinarily be.”
“How are they going to know he’s my father? Are you going to tell them?”
“They’ll find out. I told you, they’re very good.”
“When does all this start to happen? I was promised a leave. I want to go to Texas….”
“I understand,” he said. “We know about your uncle, too. That must have been tough….”
“Sir, do I get a leave or don’t I?”
“Yes, of course. There will be time for you to visit both Midland and New Orleans.”
“Thank you,” Clete said.
Graham looked into Clete’s eyes for a moment, then nodded. He looked at his watch.
“We have a compartment on the Chicago Limited,” he said. “We have an hour and a half to make it. I think you’d better start packing.”
“I just take off? What about the War Bond Tour? Won’t they miss me?”
“They will be told that you’re on emergency leave because of an illness in your family,” Graham said. “Do you suppose I could have another drink, while you pack?”
[THREE]