If I’m not looking at him, maybe he will shut the hell up.
VIII
[ONE]
The Infirmary
Casa Montagna
Estancia Don Guillermo
Kilometer 40.4, Provincial Route 60
Mendoza Province, Argentina
0815 18 October 1945
When Clete opened his eyes, he saw that sunlight filled the room. He also saw Major Maxwell Ashton III standing at the foot of his bed.
I guess I passed out listening to Tío Juan’s babbling.
He looked at the adjacent bed. It was empty.
“Where’s Perón?”
“Mother Superior is sewing him up. She said she waited until he had a little rest. She just started. She said I should wake you up.”
Clete grunted.
“So good morning,” Ashton said. “How do you feel?”
“Peachy keen. What do we hear from el Jefe?”
“I couldn’t get him on the Collins until the regular schedule at oh-six-hundred. By now, he should be getting close to the airport.”
“Which means we won’t hear from him for another two hours and something. Not before eleven hundred, probably.”
“Later even, depending on what he finds at Jorge Frade. You hungry?”
“Starved.”
“Mother Superior put Enrico to work on breakfast. You’re to get steak and eggs, orange juice, bread and butter, and not more than two glasses of wine.”
“She’s letting me have wine?”
“She’s insisting on it. Says you need it after the transfusion.”
“And where is this feast to take place?”
“In the dining room of your apartment. You need some help?”
“Do I look that bad?”
“Since you ask, Colonel, right now you look like death warmed over. And that’s a hell of an improvement over how you looked at oh-one-thirty. You must have had a hell of a day yesterday.”
“And the fun may just be beginning,” Clete said, as he sat up and swung his legs out of bed.
He felt a little dizzy, but managed to get on his feet and stay there.