“It’s a long story,” Clete said. “I need one of the pickups to go to the Little Sisters’ Hospital, and one of the others to go with us. Then get this airplane into a hangar, close the door, and don’t let anybody get near it.”
“How many injured, mi Coronel?” the
same voice asked.
Clete still couldn’t see who it was.
“Just one,” he said, and after a moment added: “El Coronel Perón. And no one is to know.”
While flying to Mendoza, Frade had thought that the Horse Rifles commander and others involved in the plot would probably think he had flown Perón to Uruguay, which was sort of the traditional destination for Argentine leaders who had to get out of the country in a hurry. He knew he had to keep them thinking that as long as possible.
“Understood, mi Coronel.”
“I buzzed Casa Montagna before I came here. Major Ashton will probably be here shortly. When he—or whoever—shows up, send them to the Little Sisters’ Hospital.”
“Sí, mi Coronel.”
“Enrico, let’s get el Coronel out of the plane and into the front seat of that pickup.”
Clete then pointed to the men standing by the pickup.
“You get in the back,” he ordered. “I’ll drive.”
[SIX]
The Little Sisters of Santa María del Pilar Convent
Mendoza, Mendoza Province Argentina
0005 17 October 1945
Halfway to the hospital, Clete realized that the worst way to keep the presence of the blood-soaked vice president of the Argentine Republic in Mendoza from becoming public knowledge would be to take him to a hospital. So he drove instead to the convent, jumped out of the pickup, and pounded on the door.
The Mother Superior of the Mendoza Chapter of the Order of the Little Sisters of Santa María del Pilar finally came to the door. She was leathery-skinned, tiny, and of indeterminate age.
“What’s going on, Cletus?” she demanded. “God help you if you’ve been drinking!”
“I really need your help. I’ve got an injured man in the pickup.”
“This is the convent, not the hospital,” she snapped.
“Please take a look.”
She walked to the pickup.
“Get out of there, Enrico,” she ordered.
Rodríguez propped up Perón as well as he could and got out. The nun climbed into the cab, and immediately recognized Perón.
“Who did this to you, Juan Domingo?” she demanded.
“They’re trying to kill me, Mother Superior,” Perón said weakly.
“You don’t mean Cletus and Enrico, I hope.”
“No. They’re the only reason I’m alive.”
“What’s your blood type?” she demanded.