“To hell with it,” he said aloud. “It’s too hot in here to put that on.”
He lay down on the bed, and again began to wonder what would happen next.
[FIVE]
Clete woke up suddenly, and with a reflex action, he looked at his Hamilton. It was eight-fifteen in the morning. On the crystal of the chronograph he noticed a small piece of whitish substance, flaked with now darkened blood. The large, unpleasant nurse did not look for brain tissue on his watch.
He left the bed, walked to the washbasin, and carefully scrubbed the watch clean. Then he glanced at himself in the mirror. His face was covered with violet patches—the disinfectant the nurse had painted him with—and so was the rest of his body.
I look like a clown. I wonder what the hell that purple stuff is.
He scrubbed at his face with no success, then tried a shower, which proved equally ineffective.
Maybe alcohol will get it off.
He went back to the bed and put on the hospital gown, then slipped his feet into the slippers. Another glance at the mirror confirmed his suspicion that his ass was hanging out.
And he was hungry. And thirsty. He banged on the door again, and in a moment it was unlocked and opened. Two strange men were in the corridor, cast from the same mold as the previous two. Though both were standing, now they had chairs. One waved a forefinger at him as if he were a small child.
“You must remain in your room.”
“I’m hungry and thirsty.”
Both men shrugged helplessly.
He closed the door himself, heard it being locked, and then returned to the mirror to examine himself—with mingled shock and amusement. There came the sound of the door being unlocked again.
Breakfast?
The door opened. A little pale, but otherwise showing no signs of passing out drunk eight hours before, el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade entered the room, freshly shaven, perfectly dressed. He was trailed by Enrico, who was carrying a small leather suitcase.
“Are you all right?” Clete’s father demanded. “You are not seriously injured?”
“I’m pretty sick about what those bastards did to Señora Pellano.”
His father nodded.
“I will of course help you, Cletus, any way I can. But the time has come for you to tell me what you are really doing down here.”
“I’m here to make sure that Howell Petro—”
“Refuse to answer me, if you must. But don’t lie to me again,” his father interrupted him.
Clete met his father’s eyes. His father nodded, as if he was satisfied that he had gotten through to Clete.
“The Bureau of Internal Security believes you are an agent of the OSS,” he said.
“Do they?” Clete said. And then he decided he didn’t want to lie to his father anymore. That did not mean telling him everything; but he wouldn’t lie about what he told him.
“I’m a serving officer of the U.S. Marine Corps,” he said. “I’ll tell you that much.”
El Coronel Frade nodded again, as if he thought he was making progress.
“And you’re here to damage the German ship in Bahía Samborombón?” his father asked.
“If I were, I couldn’t tell you that. You’re an officer, you know what it is to be under orders.”
“Or to try to influence me?” He gave Clete a hard look. “Depending on who I talk to in the BIS, I am offered both possibilities.”