"Then I suppose it's also not true that you are the man who blew up the Reine de la Mer."
"The what?"
"As an officer of the Argentine Army, of course, I was horrified to hear that the American OSS violated the neutrality of Argentina by blowing up a neutral ship in our waters."
"As, of course, you should have been. The Americans blew up a Nazi ship, you say? Do you think they had a reason?" Clete asked, smiling.
"My father, however-he is a retired Admiral of the Armada"-Navy- "does not share my views. He said something to the effect that he was surprised it took the Americans so long to do what the British should have done in the first place, and that he hoped whoever did it not only got away but received an ap-propriate decoration."
"You can tell your father, if what you say is true, that something like that probably happened."
Lauffer smiled back at him. "A decoration and a promotion to Mayor?"
"Something like that," Clete said.
"So far as Nazis being within the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos: I would sus-pect that if such an organization really exists, it is not controlled by those who sympathize with Germany, or, on the other hand, by those who sympathize with the British and the norteamericanos. It would be concerned with Argentine in-ternal affairs."
Clete was disappointed when he looked out the window and saw they were at the rear of Recoleta Cemetery; he preferred not to end the conversation just now.
When they reached the church (The Basilica of Our Lady of Pilar (completed 1732), on Recoleta Square, is considered the most beau-tiful church in Buenos Aires.) itself, a line of people had already formed to view the casket when the church was opened. Clete wondered how many of them had known, much less admired, his father, and how many were there out of simple curiosity.
Lauffer knocked at a side door, which was opened by a monk in sandals and a brown robe.
"This is Se¤or Frade," Lauffer said, and the monk opened the door all the way and pointed to the interior of the church.
The casket-el Coronel's uniform cap, his medals, and the Argentine flag back in place on top-was in the center of the aisle near the altar. And the honor guard was present, too, preparing to go on duty; their officer-in-charge was checking the appearance of the troopers. When he saw Lauffer, he came to at-tention and saluted.
There was a tug on Clete's sleeve, and he turned to see another brown-robed monk, extending a large key to him.
"The key to your tomb, Se¤or," the monk said. Clete looked helplessly at Lauffer, and the monk picked up on it. "We have moved your grandfather, Se¤or, and made the preparations for your father. I would like your approval of the arrangements."
"Moved my grandfather"? What the hell does that mean? Lauffer, seeing Clete's confusion and hesitation, nodded. "Thank you," Clete said to the monk.
"I'll go with you. I knew this was coming, and brought a torch," he said, ex-hibiting a flashlight.
They followed the monk out of a side door of the church and into the ceme-tery. Ornate burial grounds were not new to Clete. Because of the water table, belowground burial in New Orleans is virtually impossible. The result of that over the years has been the construction of elaborate aboveground tombs cov-ering hundreds of acres.
The Old Man called the cemeteries "Marb
le City," allegedly to keep the bodies from floating down the Mississippi, but really erected to impress the neighbors. The worse the scoundrel, the larger his tomb.
But there was nothing in New Orleans like Recoleta Cemetery. Here even the smallest of family tombs resembled marble churches, and there were acres and acres of them, side by side.
He had been here once before, the day Cousin Jorge Alejandro was laid to rest in the Duarte tomb.
They came to the Frade tomb. It was about the size of the Duarte Tomb, about thirty feet wide and twenty feet deep. Wrought-iron-barred glass doors offered a view of the interior, which was set up like a church altar. The monk reclaimed the key. "With your permission, Se¤or Frade," he said, and unlocked the door.
I'll be damned. 1 think he expects me to go inside.
He looked at Lauffer, his eyebrows raised in question, and Lauffer smiled, nodded, and handed Clete a flashlight.
That was nice of him to think about that, but I won't need a flashlight in there. I can see well enough, and I don't intend to stay long.
He followed the monk into the tomb. He looked around. There was a large Christ on the cross-either a statue or more likely a bronze casting-on the wall of the tomb above the altar; a large, formal cross-I wonder if that's gold? Probably not; if it was gold, somebody would climb the cemetery walls at night and steal it-and several other gold-or at least gold-plated-objects beside it on sort of a shelf against the wall. Two of them were filled with fresh flowers. Nice touch. Everything rested on a-what do you call that, an altar cloth ?- sheet of finely embroidered linen. That's fresh from the laundry. A similar but larger cloth covered a marble table, three feet wide and eight feet long, two feet from the altar against the wall. In a church, that's where the priest would have the wine and wafers for Holy Communion.
He turned to the monk, wondering if it would be appropriate to comment on the nice furnishings, or maybe to thank him-he had the key to this place, he's probably responsible.
The monk was on his knees, not praying, but instead lifting a section of the tomb floor. The floor, Clete noticed for the first time, was of steel. Like in the center of a bridge, where they put a section of steel like that, with holes, to keep cars from skidding when there's ice.