“And for the next hour,” Claudia said, “the Old Man can sulk in the house while we have a coffee. Or perhaps something stronger, Cletus?”
“Nothing, thank you,” he said.
[EIGHT]
Estancia Santa Catharina
Buenos Aires Province
2145 22 December 1942
Clete was startled when he became aware of the human form standing next to him. A female human form, to judge by the perfume.
He was lying on a chaise longue, examining the heavens with a pair of Zeiss 7 X 50 binoculars that he found in his bedroom. The room—actually an apartment—obviously served as the last repository of the personal property of the late Señor Carzino-Cormano; there were riding boots and a photo album and other things he suspected Claudia was unable to part with, even though her husband was long dead and she was in everything but law now married to his father.
After dinner, a magnificent entire lomo, roasted whole with red sweet peppers, mushrooms, and two magnificent bottles of vino tinto, Clete went to his room and to its chaise longue for a look at the stars.
He sat up. Enrico, the Remington on his lap, was about to allow himself to doze off again, satisfied that the visitor, whom Clete now recognized, posed no threat to Clete.
“I am not disturbing you?” Alicia Carzino-Cormano asked.
“Of course not.”
“Is he…is that, necessary?” Alicia asked, nodding at Enrico and his shotgun.
“He thinks so.”
“And do you?”
“I don’t know,” Clete said. “I am willing to defer to his professional judgment.”
“May I ask you a question?”
“As long as it does not involve my love life. I am an officer and a gentleman, and officers and gentlemen do not kiss and tell.”
“I heard my mother and your father talking.”
“Eavesdropping on Mama and the Old Man? I am shocked, Alicia.”
She smiled at him.
“El Coronel said there is no doubt that the Germans were behind what happened at the Guest House.”
“I’m sure they were,” Clete said.
“Why did they kill Señora Pellano?”
“Straight answer, Alicia? Because they are no-good sonsofbitches who are, perfectly willing to kill innocent people to get what they want.”
“There was a story in La Nación,” Alicia said, “which said that the English and the Norteamericanos…which accuses the Germans of killing thousands of innocent people. You believe that too?”
“Yes, I do,” Clete said, now seriously. “I’m afraid it’s even worse than that. That they have killed more than thousands. I think they’ve probably killed millions.”
“It is impossible to believe!” she said, and made a strange noise. After a moment he recognized it was a stifled sob. She turned and walked—almost ran—away from him. The sudden motion woke Enrico from his doze. He jumped to his feet with the Remington at the ready.
Suddenly understanding why she was doing that, Clete jumped off the chaise longue and ran after her and caught her arm.
“Listen to me, honey,” Clete said. “I don’t believe for a minute that Peter von Wachtstein had anything at all to do with killing Señora Pellano, or with what they tried to do to me. And I know him well enough to be certain that if he was aware of what was going on in Germany, he would do anything he could to stop it.”