And if he is el Coronel’s son, that raises other embarrassing questions: What is the relationship between el Coronel and his son? Why has the boy never even been to Argentina before? That suggests that the boy is a skeleton in el Coronel’s closet, whose door he felt sure was firmly closed…until BIS stuck its nose once again in his business.
And if the young man is both el Coronel’s son and an American intelligence agent—which is unlikely, but possible—is el Coronel aware of this? Is the son here because the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos has turned to the Americans for help? Or is the young man here to offer that help? And is the American government, which would dearly like to see President Castilló out of office, aware of the relationship between el Coronel Frade and the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos, and playing the father-son card?
Perhaps it would have been better to snoop around a little more, perhaps even ask the Embassy in Washington or the Consulate in New Orleans to see what they could find out about “Cletus Howell Frade.” But, following the session with el Almirante de Montoya, that was no longer an option.
Though Martín normally worked in civilian clothing and drove an unmarked Bureau of Internal Security Chevrolet, for his visit to el Coronel Frade he decided to wear his uniform (his basic branch was Cavalry) and arrange for an Army sedan with a soldier driver. Perhaps, if he was lucky, el Coronel Frade would be reminded that he was an officer, a Cavalry officer, simply doing his duty. He also decided not to call ahead and ask for an appointment; Frade was likely to be “unavailable” if he did that. But he would make sure that Frade was at home.
When he called Frade’s Buenos Aires home, a large mansion at Number 1728 Avenida Coronel Díaz, he was told that Frade was at the estancia, and was not expected to return to the city for several days.
Which is understandable, Martín thought. If I didn’t have to be in the city in the middle of the summer, I wouldn’t be here either.
This required only a minor change in his plans. At 10:15 he left Buenos Aires in the backseat of an Army Mercedes open sedan, drove down Route Two to the turnoff to LaPlata, had a nice luncheon in the Hotel Savoy, then returned to Route Two and drove down it past Lake Chascomús to the Pila turnoff, and then down to Pila.
According to the map, the government road ended at Pila. But there was no visible evidence of this. A sign, of brick and wrought iron, at the side of the road read “San Pedro y San Pablo,” but he saw no other indication he was now traveling on a private road.
Fifteen kilometers past the sign, he could see glimpses of the sprawling, white painted stone main building, sitting with its outbuildings in a two- or three-hectare manicured garden, all set within a windbreak of a triple row of tall cedars.
Those cedars were planted a long time ago, Martín thought. And then, There are parks in Buenos Aires smaller than el Coronel Frade’s garden.
As he came closer, he saw a landing strip in a field outside the windbreak. Four airplanes were parked on it: a stagger-wing Beechcraft, a luxurious, six-place machine he had seen and admired at El Palomar, the civilian airport on the outskirts of Buenos Aires (this was almost certainly Frade’s aircraft; he owned such an airplane); a two-place Piper Cub; and two Fieseler Störches. The Piper had civilian markings, while the Fieselers had Argentine Army markings. Fieselers were provided to the Army as another gesture of friendship and respect by the Germans.
The Fieselers and the Piper might well have just dropped into the Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo for a cup of coffee and a friendly chat with our old comrade-in-arms Jorge Guillermo Frade. But it’s more likely that I’ve come upon a meeting of the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos.
So what to do now? Turn around and go back to Buenos Aires, hoping that no one has noticed an official Army car turn around close to the house? There are gauchos in the fields. It’s entirely possible that they are posted as guards or lookouts, and that they sent one of their number gallopin
g across the pampa to the house to report an Army car on the road. Cutting across the pampa, they can get to the house long before I do.
Innocence, I think, is the best face to put on this. If I were placing the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos under surveillance, I would hardly show up in uniform in an Army Mercedes.
A burly man in a brown suit stepped off the shaded verandah as Martín’s driver was opening the door for him. There was something about him—his bearing, his immaculate shave—that made Martín suspect he had spent a large portion of his life in the Army, and probably in the Cavalry.
That has to be el Coronel’s chauffeur and bodyguard, Martín decided. Suboficial Mayor—Sergeant Major—Rodríguez retired with el Coronel Frade from the Husares de Pueyrredón.
“Buenas tardes, mi Coronel,” the man said.
“I would like to see el Coronel Frade,” Martín announced.
“Does el Coronel expect you, mi Coronel?”
No question about it. The gauchos alerted them to my arrival, and this fellow is Suboficial Major Rodríguez, Retired.
“No, he does not.”
“If you will be so kind to wait, mi Coronel, I will see if el Coronel is at home.”
“Gracias.”
Two minutes later, the retired soldier was back.
“If you will be so kind as to come with me, mi Coronel.”
El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade, wearing riding breeches, boots, and an open-collared shirt, was waiting for him inside the house, in a large room with an enormous fireplace framed with carved and gilded wooden columns that looked as if they belonged in a museum. The floor was nearly covered with Persian carpeting, beneath which a red-tiled floor could be seen.
“I am Coronel Frade,” he said, offering his hand. “Welcome to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. May I offer you a cup of coffee? Something stronger?”
Martín saluted before taking the hand.
“I am Martín. At your service, mi Coronel. No, thank you, Señor.”