“With your concurrence, mi Almirante, I’ll have Habanzo send Delgano back to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, with orders to keep his mouth shut and his eyes open until he hears from Habanzo. And then I’ll send Habanzo to Uruguay with several men—including a young Capitán, Oswaldo Storrer, in whom I have complete confidence. His orders will be to detect and interrupt the American supply line from Brazil through Uruguay to Argentina. Storrer’s orders will be to not let Habanzo out of his sight or near a telephone.”
“And then?”
“When this whole business is over, mi Almirante, I suggest that you approach el Coronel Frade and tell him that you have just learned from me that an officer in the BIS—whom you have transferred from BIS to an obscure post—had the effrontery to recruit el Capitán Delgano.”
De Montoya thought about that for a long moment.
“He knows, of course, that you cleaned up the mess at his Guest House, so he will trust you. But of course, Martín, that means that you have chosen sides—and he will know it.”
“I see no alternative, mi Almirante. El Coronel Frade has reached the stage where anyone who does not support him is against him.”
El Almirante de Montoya grunted again, turned to his window, and assumed his Deep-In-Thought position, and remained in it for over a minute.
Finally he turned.
“When the opportunity presents itself, I will have a word with el Coronel Frade. And, in the meantime, you will keep me informed?”
“Of course, mi Almirante.”
“For the present, do what you think should be done about those two,” el Almirante said, gesturing toward the closed door.
“Sí, mi Almirante,” Martín replied. “Con permiso, mi Almirante?”
With an impatient gesture of his hand, el Almirante de Montoya dismissed him.
[TWO]
1728 Avenida Coronel Díaz
Buenos Aires
1925 29 December 1942
Like Tony Pelosi, Clete Frade also decided to write farewell letters—to his grandfather and his aunt Martha, and to Señorita Dorotea Mallín.
He spent the better part of an hour at the desk in Granduncle Guillermo’s playroom working on them, with absolutely no success. With regard to his grandfather and aunt Martha, he finally concluded that letters would be counterproductive. They would arrive several weeks after the notification of his death, and would only tear away the scab from that emotional wound.
He was glad that he told Martha at Uncle Jim’s grave that he loved her. And he was sorry he had not put the same thought in words to the Old Man.
Who probably would have responded by announcing something like “people who can’t handle alcohol should leave it alone,” or “only fools and drunks wear their emotions on their sleeve.”
So far as the No-Longer-Virgin Princess was concerned, perhaps there would be time tonight at the en famille dinner to have a private word with her—a private one-way word; I certainly can’t let her know that I think I’m about to get my ass blown away—during which he could try again to point out that she was much too young to know what love was all about, and that she had an exciting period of her life before her, during which she would meet a number of young men.
The problem of farewell letters resolved, it occurred to him that he hadn’t had anything to eat lately. He could, of course, push the call button and have them rustle up something in the kitchen.
What I really want—God knows what the Old Man will serve tonight, but it certainly won’t be simple—is a hot dog with onions and a beer. And there’s a place a couple of blocks down Libertador where I can get one.
He was in his underwear, because of the heat. He went to the wardrobe, took out a red polo shirt, a pair of khaki pants, a cotton blazer, and Sullivan’s boots. When dressed, he examined himself in the mirror and was satisfied that he was wearing the right thing—that he actually looked rather spiffy—for an en famille dinner.
Then he went down and backed the Buick out of the basement, drove half a dozen blocks down Avenida Libertador until he found the small sidewalk restaurant he was looking for, and went in.
He had a private chat with the man tending the carbón parrilla (a wood-fired barbecue grill), finally convincing him that he really wanted the hot dogs grilled and not boiled, and served with chopped raw onions on French bread. Then he took a table, ordered cervezas, and watched the people walk by.
Three grilled hot dogs with raw onion and a pair of liter bottles of beer later, he glanced at his watch. It was nine o’clock. He would just have time to drive to the house on Avenida Coronel Díaz and arrive at the socially accepted time—fifteen minutes late.
[THREE]
1728 Avenida Coronel Díaz