“I told you before, Clete, that a man can’t serve two masters,” Ettinger said. “And the oath I swore when I came into the Army was ‘to obey the orders of the officers appointed over me.’ I don’t think Nestor qualifies as an officer, Lieutenant. You do. That’s the philosophic argument. What Tony would call the gut reaction is: ‘If Lieutenant Frade doesn’t trust this man, why should we?’”
“No matter how this turns out, Clete,” Tony said, “we’re with you. OK? We decided that on the way over here.”
Christ, I’m no better than my father. I want to cry.
“Which brings us back to Tony’s question,” Ettinger said. “What should we do now, Tony and I?”
“Nothing. Unless someone comes to you and tries to order you to commit suicide by trying to take out the Reine de la Mer. This is a direct order, Lieutenant Pelosi: I forbid you to attempt any action against the Reine de la Mer without my specific approval. Clear?”
“Yes, Sir,” Tony said.
“If you want to get in touch with me, have David call and say he’s from American Express and I have mail there. I’ll then meet you at five o’clock the same afternoon. Where?”
“One of the hotel bars,” Ettinger said. “That would look coincidental.”
“The bar in the Plaza,” Tony decided.
“The bar in the Plaza,” Clete parroted. “And now get out of here.”
Pelosi and Ettinger both offered their hands.
Clete watched them as they walked to the library door.
Pelosi turned at Ettinger’s arm, surprising Clete, and then surprised him even more:
“Detail, Ten-hut!” Pelosi barked.
Ettinger came to attention.
Pelosi raised his hand in a crisp salute and held it.
“Permission to return to post, Sir?”
Clete returned the salute.
“Post, Lieutenant Pelosi.”
Pelosi brought his saluting hand crisply to his side, then barked, “Haa-bout, Face!” and “Faw-wud, Harch!” and marched out of the library.
Just in time. Otherwise they would have seen the tears running down my cheeks.
[FIVE]
Recoleta Cemetery
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1435 19 December 1942
As he observed the casket of el Capitán Jorge Alejandro Duarte being placed before the altar inside the Duartes’ enormous marble tomb, Hauptmann Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein decided that he was honor bound to inform Lieutenant Cletus Howell Frade that an attempt would be made to murder him.
He reached this conclusion by a circuitous route, starting
from a moment when he glanced down at the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross around his neck and at the other one on the red velvet pillow.
His first thoughts were unkind: This goddamned fool does not deserve the Knight’s Cross. He got himself killed flying an airplane that he was not supposed to be flying in the first place, in a war that wasn’t his.
Other thoughts immediately followed: Furthermore, he was probably unqualified to fly the Storch at all. It is a relatively simple, stable aircraft; but like all airplanes, it has its peculiarities. The Storche I’ve flown have gone from the first faint, barely detectable indication of a low-speed stall condition to a full stall in the time it takes to spit.