“He is a Luftwaffe officer,” he heard his father explain to Colonel Graham. “He accompanied the remains of my nephew, who was killed at Stalingrad, here for burial.”
“He’s also the fellow who warned me those bastards were going to try to kill me,” Clete said as he picked up the telephone.
“¿Hola?”
“Señor Frade? This is el Comandante von Wachtstein.”
“Comandante?”
“Yes. Somewhat belatedly recognizing my extraordinary talents, the Oberkommando der Luftwaffe has promoted me.”
“How wise of them. And how nice to hear your voice, mi Comandante.”
“How nice to hear yours. Señor Frade, especially after your unfortunate encounter, which I read about in the newspaper. I called to let you know how pleased I was to hear that you’re all right.”
“Unfortunately, mi Comandante, Señora Pellano is not all right.”
“The world seems to be full of vicious bastards, doesn’t it, Señor Frade?”
“It certainly does.”
“But life goes on, Señor Frade. I had another reason to call.”
“And what was that, mi Comandante?”
“The day after Christmas, I am having luncheon at the Centro Naval. The Officers’ Club, downtown. They have honored me with a guest membership.”
“How nice for you, mi Comandante.”
“It’s a pity you are no longer a serving officer, Señor Frade. Perhaps, if you were, your father could arrange such a membership for you. It’s a lovely place.”
“My father is an amazing man, mi Comandante. Perhaps he can arrange a membership for me anyway. Do I understand you are inviting me to lunch?”
“Actually, it was Señorita Carzino-Cormano’s idea. And with your approval, she suggests we ask Señorita Mallín to make it a foursome.”
Clete saw that El Coronel Frade and Colonel Graham were shamelessly eavesdropping on the conversation. He smiled warmly at both.
“Under that circumstance, mi Comandante, I gratefully accept your kind invitation.”
“Splendid. We will look forward to seeing you at two at the Centro Naval.”
“I’ll be there, mi Comandante,” Clete said, and hung up.
“Isn’t your friend sticking his neck way out having lunch with you?” Graham asked.
“Whatever he is, Peter von Wachtstein is no fool,” Clete said.
“And don’t turn your imagination on, Colonel,” Clete continued. “Don’t even start to dream up one of your goddamned scenarios if it involves von Wachtstein.”
Graham held his hands up in innocence.
“It never entered my mind, Clete.”
“Bullshit, Colonel. Just forget it.”
“Dorotea?” his father asked.
“Our relationship has changed, Dad.”