“How may I help you, Coronel Martín?”
Martín took his credentials from his pocket and extended them to Frade.
“How did an honest cavalryman become connected with the BIS?” Frade asked.
“It is a long and painful story, mi Coronel,” Martín said, smiling.
“I am at your service, and that of Internal Security, Coronel.”
“This is a delicate matter, mi Coronel,” Martín said. “Absent more pressing duties, el Almirante de Montoya would have handled this himself.”
“Why don’t we get to the point, Coronel?” Frade said, more than a hint of impatience in his voice.
“I have some photographs, mi Coronel,” Martín said, reaching into his briefcase for the envelope containing a dozen from the more than fifty photographs Habanzo had laid on his desk the day before. “May I show them to you?”
Frade went through them one by one. The first several showed three people getting into the ostentatious Rolls-Royce convertible Enrico Mallín insisted on driving.
There is something vaguely American about the other two men, he thought. Where was this taken?
The next several photographs showed everybody leaving the Rolls. He recognized the site. Avenue Alvear.
They’re getting out of the Rolls at the Alvear Palace Hotel.
Who the hell are these people?
What’s the interest of Internal Security in Enrico Mallín?
There is something very American about the tall one.
Holy Mary, Mother of Christ!
The balance of the photographs were views of the men in the lobby and lobby bar of the hotel.
One of them showed…Christ, my son, my son!…looking with obvious appreciation at a rather spectacular Miña fawning over an old fool standing at the bar.
There was another one of that. Cletus…my son, my son…sprawled in a chair, legs outstretched and ankles crossed, wearing boots…what do you expect, he was raised in Texas, in Texas they stretch their legs and wear boots…a glass of beer in his hand, and looking with healthy admiration at the Miña.
What in the name of the Blessed Virgin and all the saints is he doing in Argentina?
The last two pictures showed Cletus entering Mallín’s car and driving off down the Avenue Alvear.
He handed the photographs back to Martín.
“Well? What was I supposed to see in those?”
“Mi Coronel, with respect, did you recognize anyone in those photographs?”
“Yes, of course. Enrico Mallín. The man with the mustache.”
“Mi Coronel, with respect, no one else?”
“I have no idea who the short one is. The taller one is my son.” He met Martín’s eyes. “I didn’t think you were asking if I recognized my son.”
“Excuse me, mi Coronel. No offense was intended.”
“No offense was taken. But I am, naturally, interested to know why BIS is interested in my son.”
“There was some question, mi Coronel, whether or not he was in fact your son.”