Blood and Honor Page 9

  Two-B, on the second floor of the mansion, was a small private dining room, with a table capable of comfortably seating ten guests. Four places had been set, with an impressive display of silver and crystal, at opposite ends of the table. A sideboard was loaded with bottles of whiskey, half a dozen kinds of wine, two silver wine coolers, and appropriate glasses.

  Capitán Lauffer, who had been inspecting the wine, came to attention when the two general officers entered the room, as did two waiters in brief white jackets.

  ‘‘Here you are, Roberto,’’ Rawson said. ‘‘I think that when it’s my time to pass through the pearly gates, you’ll have gotten ahead of me there, too, and will be holding them open for me.’’

  ‘‘Mi General,’’ Lauffer said, and bowed his head toward General Ramírez.

  ‘‘How are you, Lauffer?’’ he asked, smiling. He then turned to one of the waiters and pointed: ‘‘And put everyone at one end of the table,’’ he ordered. ‘‘I don’t want to have to shout at my guests.’’

  Both waiters quickly moved to obey.

  Rawson looked around the room, then put his hand to his ear and looked questioningly at Lauffer.

  ‘‘El Coronel Martín, Sir, tells me the room is clean. He also suggested discretion, Sir.’’

  Rawson nodded, satisfied that the room was indeed free of listening devices. He knew Teniente Coronel Martín to be a very knowledgeable, and reliable, security officer.

  ‘‘Did he find anything?’’ Mayor Querro wondered aloud.

  ‘‘I think he would have said something, Sir,’’ Lauffer said.

  ‘‘What else did he have to say?’’ Rawson asked.

  Ramírez waved his hand in a gesture signaling Lauffer that he should not answer in the presence of the waiters. Lauffer nodded his understanding.

  Querro walked to the sideboard, waited until he had Ram írez’s attention, and then pointed at a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label scotch.

  ‘‘If that’s champagne, I’d rather have that,’’ Ramírez said, indicating one of the coolers with his hand.

  One of the waiters moved quickly to take a bottle of champagne from the cooler and started to peel off the metallic wrapping at the neck.

  ‘‘I think that’s what I’d better do, too,’’ Rawson said. ‘‘What for you, Lauffer?’’

  ‘‘Nothing, Sir. Thank you.’’

  ‘‘Oh, have a glass of wine,’’ Ramírez said. It was an order, and Lauffer understood it.

  ‘‘Thank you very much, Sir,’’ he said.

  The champagne was poured and offered on a tray by one of the waiters.

  ‘‘Thank you,’’ General Ramírez said, taking a glass, and then adding, ‘‘Please leave us now.’’

  He took his glass and walked to the ceiling-high French doors that overlooked Plaza San Martín and its ancient, massive Gomero trees.

  Rawson sipped his champagne and waited for Ramírez to turn to him. When he did not, he walked to the window and stood beside him.

  San Martín, Belgrano, and Pueyrredón,6Ramírez thought, stood a hundred and thirty years ago, looking at those very same trees, looking out onto the River Plate, and deciding to pay the price, whatever it was, to see Argentina free and democratic. Is that what we’re doing? Or will we be just one more junta in a long line of juntas who decided they were the salvation of Argentina? And were, more often than not, wrong.

  ‘‘You seem very pensive, mi General,’’ Rawson said.

  ‘‘I suppose I am, but if you are asking, ‘Are you having second thoughts?’ the answer is no,’’ Ramírez said, and met Rawson’s eyes. ‘‘I regret the necessity of having to do what we have no choice but to do; but el Presidente has made it quite clear he has no intention of leaving office, no matter how the election turns out.’’

  ‘‘No man is good enough to govern another man without that other’s consent,’’ Rawson said.

  ‘‘Are you quoting someone?’’ Ramírez asked.

  ‘‘Abraham Lincoln.’’

  ‘‘Ah, Lincoln! Honest Abe. What did they call him, ‘The Great Emancipator’?’’

  ‘‘I asked myself if that isn’t what we—with the best intentions—are about to do ourselves? Govern without consent? ’’ Rawson said.

  ‘‘And what did you answer yourself?’’

  ‘‘Depending on how you look at it, we intend to either preserve or restore democracy,’’ Rawson said. ‘‘If we do that, we are right. If we don’t, if we seize power and thenretain it—for whatever noble reason—we will be no better than Castillo.’’

  ‘‘Anything else?’’

  ‘‘More North Americans were killed in Lincoln’s Civil War than were killed in the First World War, more than they will probably lose in this one. I don’t even like to think what would happen here if what we plan turned into a civil war. Look at Spain . . . brother against brother, God only knows how many thousands, hundreds of thousands, died over there.’’

  ‘‘Argentina is not Spain,’’ Ramírez said sharply, and then, more softly, ‘‘So you are having second thoughts?’’

  ‘‘I had second thoughts. The conclusions I drew you just expressed with some eloquence: ‘I regret the necessity of having to do what we have no choice but to do.’ And I deeply regret that Jorge is no longer here to lead us.’’

  ‘‘I asked myself what would happen if we did nothing,’’ Ramírez said. ‘‘Just do nothing. Castillo might get re-elected. That’s unlikely, but possible. Or even if he seizes power rather than step down. What real harm would that do? Aside from the obvious answer that he and his cronies are robbing the treasury dry—’’

  ‘‘We are in agreement,’’ Rawson interrupted him. ‘‘We regret the necessity . . .’’

  ‘‘Yes, we have had this conversation before, haven’t we, Arturo?’’ Ramírez said. ‘‘Let’s put philosophy away for a moment and hear what Lauffer has to tell us.’’

  Lauffer, who had been waiting near the wine coolers for a summons, walked to them.

  ‘‘Our friend,’’ he said quietly, ‘‘believes what we are looking for is very likely in the country.’’

  Ramírez grunted. He had suspected that all along.

  ‘‘In any event, what we seek is not in Buenos Aires in either house,’’ Lauffer said.

  ‘‘I didn’t think it would be,’’ Rawson said. ‘‘What about the money?’’

  ‘‘We are proceeding in the belief that the money will be with OUTLINE BLUE, mi General.’’

  ‘‘Either house?’’ Ramírez asked.

  ‘‘The one on Avenida Coronel Díaz, or el Coronel’s guest house across from the Hipódromo on Libertador,’’ Lauffer clarified.

  ‘‘If there is someone listening to this conversation,’’ Rawson said, ‘‘and he has half the brains he was born with, he already has figured out who, and what, we’re talking about. Can we stop acting like characters in a bad movie?’’

  Ramírez looked at him, and after a moment shrugged.

  ‘‘What does Martín have to say about finding what we’re looking for at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘He said, Sir, that seems impossible. Getting in the house at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo by itself would be difficult. And there is a good safe . . .’’

  ‘‘A Himpell, in the shrine,’’ Rawson said.

  ‘‘What?’’ Ramírez asked. ‘‘What shrine?’’

  ‘‘You never saw the shrine to the blessed norteamericano? ’’ Rawson asked.

  ‘‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’’ Ramírez said.

  ‘‘Jorge had a private library at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo,’’ Rawson said. ‘‘More or less full of photographs and other material devoted to his son. The safe is behind the books. A portion of the bookcase moves outward.’’

  ‘‘Why do you call it a shrine?’’

  ‘‘That’s how I think of it,’’ Rawson said. ‘‘I meant no disrespect, either to God or to Jorge. . . .’’

 
‘‘Where do you suppose the combination to that safe is? Do you suppose Señora Carzino-Cormano might have it?’’ Ramírez said, getting back to the subject.

  Claudia Carzino-Cormano’s only slightly smaller Estancia Santa Catalina bordered Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.

  ‘‘Coronel Martín believes only Coronel Frade had the combination,’’ Lauffer said.

  ‘‘Well, it wouldn’t hurt to ask her,’’ Ramírez said, paused, and went on. ‘‘God, if he’d only married her! Why in God’s name didn’t he marry her! They were living in sin for years! If they had married, even if she didn’t have the combination, she could have ordered the safe opened.’’

  ‘‘He didn’t marry her because he wanted to leave everything he owned to his son,’’ Rawson said. ‘‘I thought you knew that. But that’s neither here nor there. We have to deal with the situation as it is. What are our options?’’

  ‘‘Send el Coronel Martín to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo with orders to open the safe—even if he has to use explosives,’’ Mayor Querro said.

  ‘‘You don’t really think we could do that without attracting the attention of the Policía Federal, do you, Pedro?’’ Ramírez said sarcastically. ‘‘And that, for obvious reasons, is the last thing we want to do.’’

  ‘‘Another option,’’ Rawson said, ‘‘is to do nothing about the safe. . . .’’

  ‘‘Hope no one gets into it before we act?’’ Ramírez asked. He thought that over a moment, then went on. ‘‘Assemble another complete Operations Order, you mean. That’s possible, I suppose.’’

  ‘‘What other choice do we have, mi General?’’

  ‘‘Sir, we need the money,’’ Querro said. ‘‘What about that?’’

  ‘‘Damn!’’ Ramírez said.

  ‘‘Sir,’’ Lauffer said uneasily, ‘‘el Coronel Martín asked me to tell you that there has been a radio from the son—’’

  ‘‘From el Coronel Frade’s son?’’ Rawson interrupted.

  ‘‘Yes, Sir. Asking to delay the funeral services until he can get here. He leaves Miami tomorrow.’’

  ‘‘Wonderful!’’ Ramírez said. ‘‘And the first thing he’s going to do is head right for that safe!’’

  ‘‘Why do you say that?’’ Rawson asked. ‘‘I can’t believe that Jorge discussed OUTLINE BLUE with him.’’

  ‘‘I’m not so sure about that,’’ Ramírez replied. ‘‘But that’s not what I meant. What I meant was that, under the law, the moment Jorge died, everything he owned became the son’s patrimony.’’

  ‘‘I’m not sure that’s so,’’ Rawson said. ‘‘He’s an American. For one thing, we can deny him a visa.’’

  ‘‘He doesn’t need a visa, he’s an Argentine.’’

  ‘‘He’s not an Argentine. My God, he served in the American Navy!’’

  ‘‘Corps of Marines,’’ Ramírez corrected him. ‘‘But he was born here and is legally an Argentine. He has an Argentine passport. Jorge got him one just before he became involved with blowing up the Reine de la Mer.’’

  ‘‘We could detain him,’’ Rawson said.

  ‘‘On what pretext? The Americans would howl in outrage, and Castillo would wonder why we did that. About our only choice is to appeal to him—maybe Claudia Carzino -Cormano could appeal to him—to let us carry out the work his father began.’’

  ‘‘And if he says no?’’

  Ramírez shrugged.

  ‘‘I’m open to a better suggestion,’’ he said.

  ‘‘He’s close to Señora Carzino-Cormano,’’ Rawson said. ‘‘And he knows her relationship to his father.’’

  ‘‘What I suggest is that we treat him as an honored guest who has suffered a terrible loss, and as soon as possible have Claudia talk to him. Does that make sense to you?’’

  "Sí, Señor, of course,’’ Rawson said.

  ‘‘I’ll go see Claudia tonight,’’ Ramírez said. ‘‘I know she’s in Buenos Aires.’’

  ‘‘If nothing else, perhaps Claudia can keep him away from the safe until after we act,’’ Rawson said, warming to the idea. ‘‘We don’t need OUTLINE BLUE. We just have to keep Castillo from laying his hands on it.’’

  Ramírez grunted thoughtfully.

  ‘‘But as Pedro pointed out, we cannot put OUTLINE BLUE into operation without the money. We’re going to have to get into that safe,’’ he said. ‘‘Blowing it open is a last resort. Which means we have to deal with the son. Agreed?’’

  "Sí, mi General,’’ Rawson said.

  ‘‘The possibility exists, Señor, that Suboficial Mayor Rodríguez has the combination,’’ Querro said. ‘‘If he does, it would solve a lot of problems.’’

  ‘‘As I understand it, he is in the hospital being guarded by the Policía Federal. Any conversation any of us might have with him would be recorded,’’ Rawson said.

  ‘‘It’s agreed, then,’’ Ramírez said, ‘‘that we will deal with the son, through Claudia. Is that correct?’’

  Rawson nodded.

  ‘‘And now I suggest, gentlemen,’’ Ramírez said, closing the discussion, ‘‘that we have our dinner.’’

  "Sí, mi General,’’ Lauffer said, then walked to the door and pushed the button that would summon the waiters.

  IV

  [ONE] Avenida Pueyrredón 1706, Piso 10 Capital Federal, Buenos Aires, Argentina 0755 9 April 1943

  While there were many things in Argentina Hans-Peter Freiherr (Baron) von Wachtstein had come to admire, from the food to—especially—the women, the Argentine concept of time was not among them. It was not a question of whether an Argentine would ever be on time, but instead, of how late an Argentine was going to be, a period that ranged from a minimum of fifteen minutes to an hour.

  Argentines ascribed this character flaw to their Spanish heritage, but that was so much nonsense. Peter had been to Spain. He knew Spaniards regarded their timepieces as instruments of civilization rather than as decorations for the wall and/or jewelry for the wrist.

  When this casual disregard for an agreed-upon schedule was tied in with another national character flaw, forgetfulness —such as forgetting the door key to the place where they were supposed to be long minutes before—Peter, normally a placid, sometimes quite charming young man, tended to lose his temper.

  In the situation at hand, his maid—a Paraguayan Amazon who outweighed him by at least thirty pounds—had agreed to daily present herself at his apartment at 0700, to prepare coffee according to the ratio of beans to water that he had laid out, to awaken him at 0715, and to have coffee, two soft-boiled eggs, rolls and/or bread, marmalade, and butter waiting for him when he came into the dining room at 0730.

  He did not think it was too much to ask, and consequently was more than a little annoyed when his slumber was disturbed by the unpleasant grinding of the service-elevator door opening on his floor, followed almost immediately by the unpleasant clanging of the service-entrance doorbell. When he consulted his wristwatch, it indicated 07 : 54 : 45.

  The facts spoke for themselves. She was not only fifty-four minutes late, again, but she had forgotten her key, again.

  Peter, who was a blond, blue-eyed, compactly built twenty-four-year-old, jumped out of bed. Pausing only long enough to snatch a towel from where he had dropped it on the bedroom floor and wrap it around his waist—he slept naked—he walked quickly out of his bedroom.

  The apartment was furnished with heavy, Germanic-looking furniture, rented, like the apartment itself, from an Ethnic German-Argentine family who were happy to make these available at a very reasonable price to a man like von Wachtstein. They considered this act a small contribution to the war effort and the Thousand Year Reich.

  He walked quickly through the living room to the kitchen and finally reached the service-entrance door, rehearsing all the harsh and unkind things he was going to say to Señora Dora.

  After some trouble with the lock—during which the bell clanged twice, impatiently, in his ear—he got the door open, swung
it wide, and was struck dumb.

  His caller was not his maid, but a black-haired twenty-year -old Argentine female of extraordinary beauty named Alicia Carzino-Cormano. He had known Alicia socially since the previous December and in the biblical sense for approximately fifteen days.

  ‘‘Liebchen!’’ he finally blurted.

  ‘‘May I come in?’’

  He stepped back from the door and she walked past him. He closed the door, reached out his hand, and touched her shoulder, whereupon she turned to him, came into his arms, rested her face against his chest, and clung to him desperately.

  ‘‘Liebchen, what’s wrong?’’

  ‘‘I’m frightened,’’ she said.

  ‘‘About what?’’

  ‘‘Everything,’’ she said.

  Well, that makes two of us.

  She pushed away from him and smiled up at him.

  ‘‘Sorry,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Don’t be silly,’’ he said. ‘‘Sorry for what?’’

  ‘‘I’m supposed to be at mass,’’ she said. ‘‘Confession and then mass. That’s what I told Isabela. Mother really sent me here.’’

  "Why?"

  ‘‘Humberto called Mother very late last night. Cletus arrives here this afternoon. Mother thought you’d want to know, and she didn’t want to use the telephone.’’

  I don’t suppose it’s very likely Cletus has the combination to his father’s safe, but I’m grasping for straws.

  ‘‘Yes, of course.’’

  He leaned down and kissed her, very chastely, on the forehead.

  ‘‘I’d better put some clothes on,’’ he said. ‘‘Dora is an hour late. She’s liable to walk in any second.’’

  She nodded.

  ‘‘You want to make some coffee? I won’t be a minute.’’

  She nodded again, and smiled.

  He walked back to his bedroom and began to take clothing from his closet. He sensed he was not alone, and turned.

  Alicia was standing in the bedroom door.

  ‘‘Do you think they’re going to try to kill Cletus, too?’’ she asked.