—
“Well, where do we stand in dealing with our problem?” Perón asked as he sipped his wine and awaited his plate.
“Our problem”?
It’s you they’re trying to kill, not me!
“We’re waiting to hear from Buenos Aires, to learn what happened at the airport,” Clete said. “For example, is General Martín still alive?”
“And if someone calls here to provide that information, Cletus, they will know that you’re here and that I am almost certainly with you.”
“We have a way around that.”
“When do you expect to hear from Buenos Aires?” Perón demanded.
“Before noon.”
“Then we have time for you to tell me exactly what’s going on around here,” Perón said.
Oh, shit. This is what I’ve been afraid of.
And I can’t say it’s none of his goddamn business, either.
I guess I could, now that I think about it, but that would (a) sure piss him off and (b) make him determined to find out.
Unless of course he does get himself killed.
“Okay. I’ll tell you what I can.”
“You’ll tell me everything. And I think we had better have this conversation in private. Major Ashton, will you excuse us?”
“Stay right where you are, Max,” Clete snapped. He turned to Perón. “Let’s clear the air. You don’t issue any orders here. Your status is that of an officer under arrest by order of President Farrell. My status is that I am acting at the orders of the president. Until the president releases you from arrest—or General Martín, the only other person who can issue an order to me right now, does, and we don’t know what happened to him—that makes you my prisoner.”
“I can’t believe what I just heard!” Perón said. “How dare you talk to me that way!”
“You better believe it, and tell me you do or I’ll have Major Ashton lock you in a room and keep you there until this mess is resolved.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“Major Ashton, get a couple of the Húsares,” Frade ordered, “and take Colonel Perón to the detention facility.”
Ashton popped to his feet.
“Yes, sir.”
“The Húsares? There are Húsares here?” Perón asked, visibly shocked.
I meant to say “ex-Húsares.”
But if he wants to think that . . .
“And they call me ‘Coronel,’” Clete said. “Now, shall I have Major Ashton get a couple of them? Or are you going to behave?”
Perón considered that option for a full thirty seconds.
“The worst thing that could happen under these circumstances is that there be more bad blood between us,” he said finally. “Will you accept my parole?”
“Accepted. Sit down, Major Ashton.”