“Let’s see the names,” Martín said.
There were three names on the list: Chief Radioman Oscar J. Schultz, USN; Chief Ordnanceman Kenneth B. Daniels, USN; and Seaman Second Class Horace K. Williams, USNR.
“We have no idea where these people are?”
“I have checked with the various police agencies, mi Coronel. No.”
“No idea at all?”
“The Chief Petty Officers attended a reception given for them at the Escuela de Guerra Naval, mi Coronel. They were last seen there entering a taxi, presumably to return to their ship.”
Martín turned in his chair and took out his English-Spanish dictionary and looked up the word “ordnance.” He found what he expected to find, but it never hurt to be sure.
“Habanzo, I want you to meet with el Coronel Savia-Gonzalez and tell him that I consider this a matter of the greatest importance. I want the Policía Federal to find these sailors, if it means they have to visit every brothel in Buenos Aires, every bar, and the residence of every woman who has a reputation for not keeping her knees together in the presence of an American dollar bill.”
“Sí, mi Coronel. You suspect they missed their ship on purpose, mi Coronel?”
“I do not know that, of course, Habanzo, but I think we should err on the side of caution, don’t you?”
“Of course, mi Coronel.”
“Assign as many of our men as you think appropriate to assist the Policía Federal, Habanzo.”
“Sí, mi Coronel.”
“And I am to be notified, no matter the hour, when any one of them is located.”
“Sí, mi Coronel.”
By now, Martín thought, all three of these American sailors are at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, doing for young Frade and his men whatever they are unable to do by themselves.
And Señor A. F. Graham will doubtless be there too. That “Vice-President of Howell Petroleum”—according to his visa and passport—who has not once visited the offices of Sociedad Mercantil de Importación Productos Petrolíferos. But who has visited both the American Embassy and the Destroyer Thomas, where he was saluted by the Officer of the Deck as he went aboard. And who was last seen in el Coronel Frade’s Buick station wagon on the road to Pila and Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.
But no one will be able to accuse me of closing my eyes if the sailors who “missed their ship” are caught trying to sink the Reine de la Mer—possibly by affixing a mine to her hull; a chief ordnanceman works with explosives—or if they disappear after doing something else in violation of Argentine neutrality; or if such an act causes one or more of their bodies to wash up on the beach. I might be looking in the wrong direction, possibly, but not closing my eyes.
“That will be all, Habanzo. The sooner we find these sailors, and find out what they’re up to, the better.”
“Sí, mi Coronel.”
[THREE]
Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo
Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province
1315 29 December 1942
Second Lieutenant Anthony J. Pelosi, CE, AUS, was alone when he drove a Ford Model T pickup truck up to the ranch house.
First Lieutenant Cletus H. Frade, USMCR, Colonel A. J. Graham, USMCR, Suboficial Mayor Enrico Rodríguez, Argentine Cavalry, Retired, and Staff Sergeant David G. Ettinger, USAR, were sitting on the verandah.
“That truck is older than he is,” Colonel Graham observed.
“Where’s Chief Daniels?” Clete asked when Tony walked onto the verandah.
“Taking five-inch rounds apart.”
“Still? How many flare assemblies will we need?” Clete asked.