[TWO]
23 Calle Arcos
Belgrano, Buenos Aires
1605 25 November 1942
The key to the lock on Clete’s bedroom door was a massive device as long as his hand; and when he turned it, the bolt fell with an audible metallic clunk. It could probably be heard the length of the corridor; if so, it would probably make people wonder why he was locking the door.
But it couldn’t be helped. He didn’t want one of the servants barging in while he was going through the briefcase.
The afternoon was not going well. There was something about Jasper Nestor he didn’t like, even if he couldn’t put his finger on it. The three-ounce drink Nestor forced on him made him feel thick-tongued and stupid at lunch. And after he left the air-conditioned hotel into the summer heat, it made him dizzy and gave him a headache.
He decided in the taxi on the way to Pelosi’s new apartment on Avenida Corrientes that it was probably a delayed reaction to coming from Guadalcanal, a to-be-expected resentment toward any military-age male who hadn’t been there, who had been sitting around in a neutral country drinking whiskey with ice in it in an air-conditioned saloon, while he and the others were in the heat and mud and humidity of Guadalcanal eating captured Japanese food and wondering if today was the day the odds would catch up with you and your next takeoff in a battered and worn-out Wildcat was going to be your last.
And then he wasn’t able to find Pelosi. Carrying the pistols in a briefcase like a Chicago gangster, he went to the apartment on Avenida Corrientes. But Pelosi wasn’t there—the building manager said he would return tomorrow and finish moving in. So Clete tried the Alvear Palace Hotel.
When Pelosi wasn’t there, either, Clete decided he was following his orders to familiarize himself with Buenos Aires. Clete had told him to get on a bus, any bus, and ride it as far as it went.
The bus-riding was one of the really helpful, practical suggestions they’d gotten from the mentors in New Orleans. That Pelosi was following his orders reminded Clete that he himself was violating the military equivalent of the Golden Rule: that a commanding officer should never order his men to do anything he wasn’t willing to do himself. He had yet to ride on a bus. His rationale, which he knew was empty, was that he’d been too busy, and when the Buick arrived, he would make up for his failure by driving around the city.
He left a note for Pelosi in an envelope at the concierge’s desk in the Alvear Palace, telling him he would meet him there at ten in the morning.
He sat down on the bed and opened Nestor’s briefcase. Two envelopes were inside, unsealed. In one was a single sheet of paper on which was typed:
Sud Atlantico Mercader—Cádiz—19 Nov
Reine de la Mer—Lisbon—23 Nov
Águila del Mare—Barcelona—16 Nov
Those are the names of the three possible ships—where the hell is Cádiz? I should have paid attention in geography class. And when they sailed. Nestor probably gave them to me in case I hear something on my own about them. He said the voyage was at least twenty-three days. Twenty-three days minimum from where? Anyway, that means the first of them will be here in the next couple weeks.
He found a sheet of paper in the writing desk and copied the names down for Pelosi.
I don’t think Pelosi stands any better chance of learning anything about these ships than I do, but if Nestor thinks there’s a chance—and he’s the expert—no harm can be done. And even if we don’t learn anything on our own, Pelosi will at least know what we’re looking for.
The second envelope contained a thick stack of money, American twenty- and fifty-dollar bills. And a sheet of paper, on which was typewritten:
* * *
Receipt of Two Thousand Five Hundred Dollars ($2500.00) in reimbursement of expenses incurred in the Service of The United States is acknowledged.
Cletus H. Frade
25 November 1942
* * *
Well, that’s interesting. Nestor forgot to have me sign for what is obviously our expense money. He didn’t even mention the money. Maybe his mind was on other things, once he met me. Such as “What is the OSS thinking of to send an absolutely unqualified airplane driver down here to do something important?”
What do I do about it? Drop the signed receipt off at the bank in an envelope? Or let him ask for it? “What twenty-five hundred?”
He’ll ask for it. Probably telephone. And if he does, I can ask him how I can get together with Ettinger. I’m pretty forgetful myself, especially when I have three ounces of scotch in me before lunch.
He took the pistols from the briefcase and laid them on the chest of drawers. They were each in holsters, separately wrapped in small towels. The holsters were different from U.S. military issue. They were stiff—molded—and had a hard molded cover, fixed in place with a rather ornate catch instead of the flap used by American armed forces. And they had a pocket holding an extra magazine sewn to the long side.
The two magazines provided for each pistol were loaded. When he thumbed the cartridges out, he saw that while they were identical to the .45 cartridges he was familiar with, their head stamps (which he didn’t understand) were foreign.