“In war, decent men are often forced to do dishonorable things,” Frade said. “What went wrong with his plan was he did not take into account your loyalty to your men. You might be willing to give your life, but you would not sacrifice the lives of your men.”
“I thought about flying that goddamned Beechcraft right into the sonofabitch,” Clete blurted. “But I didn’t think it would be any more effective than the lousy twenty pounds of C4 they gave me.”
“I am very glad you reached that decision, Cletus,” his father said.
Clete looked at him. Tears were running down his father’s cheeks. Their eyes met.
“Would it be a great embarrassment to you if I put my arms around you?” el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade asked.
“No, Sir,” Clete said, his voice breaking. He went to his father and they wrapped their arms around each other.
Finally, they broke apart.
“Well,” his father said, “at least we know where things stand.”
“Do we? I don’t know what the hell to do now. Right now, I am having some very unpatriotic thoughts. If the OSS doesn’t really give a damn about the Reine de la Mer, why should I?”
His father didn’t respond for a long moment, but then said, “Because you have been ordered to destroy it. Your admirable concern for your men doesn’t change that. So long as the Reine de la Mer is in the Bahía Samborombón, you are obliged to do your best to destroy it. Honor requires that you do anything you can—short of suicide—to carry out your orders.”
“You said you would help?”
“I have a suggestion,” Frade said. “I will call el Almirante de Montoya again and tell him that I have changed my mind, and that he should expel you from Argentina.”
“What good would that do?”
“And then I will get you a seat on the Pan American flight to Miami. You will go to Washington and tell this Colonel Graham to his face…”
“Doing that won’t—”
“Hear me out.”
Clete shrugged.
“You will tell Colonel Graham that I deduced the real reason he assigned this mission to you, and that I had you expelled to save your life. That has the great benefit of being the truth.”
“I don’t want to be expelled.”
“You have no choice in the matter. If you feel that you should, you can tell your Colonel Graham that you are willing to come back secretly to sink the Reine de la Mer—you can be put ashore from a U.S. submarine, or come from Brazil via Uruguay. If you return, you will of course have my assistance.”
El Coronel let that sink in for a moment, and then went on.
“You have no options, Cletus. Without my assistance, there is no way you can harm the Reine de la Mer. And if, for example, you try to hide yourself in Argentina, el Almirante would learn of it, and there would be nothing I could do for you. El Coronel Martín’s men, believe me, would find you in a matter of days. You would then be imprisoned. Possibly for a long time. There are a number of people in this country who would like to hold that sword at my throat—the sword of my son in an Argentine prison.”
“If I came back, you would help me?” Clete asked.
“I give you my word.”
“Why?”
“To try to save your life.”
Christ, he’s got me. I don’t have any other option.
“I think it would be best for you to stay here at the estancia, until your expulsion can be arranged, and until I can get you on the Pan American flight to Miami.”
Clete accepted the inevitable.
“I have to go to Buenos Aires,” he said. “I have to explain all this to Ettinger and Pelosi.”