"Yes, do that," Dorotea chimed in mischievously. "We have so much to talk about."
Her father headed for the door, followed by Little Henry, his wife, and Dorotea. Without realizing he was doing it, Clete went after them, his hand reaching to touch Dorotea's shoulder as if with a mind of its own.
She turned, looked into his eyes, then touched her lips with her fingers and moved the kiss to Clete's lips. Clete didn't think either her father or her brother saw this, but he knew her mother did. She looked at Clete, asking without words what that was all about.
Clete met Dorotea's mother's eyes, nodded his head, and shrugged.
I am forced to confirm herewith, Se¤ora, your worst suspicions and fears. Well, maybe not your worst suspicions and fears.
"Oh, my!" Pamela Mallin said. "Oh, my!" And then scurried quickly down the corridor after her husband.
Clete watched them for a moment and then turned.
Enrico was standing there, startling him, and then mystifying him. He was simultaneously solemnly winking at
Clete and tapping his temple with his in-dex finger.
What the hell is that all about?
"it is here, Se¤or Clete," Enrico said.
"What's there?"
"The combination to el Coronel's safe."
"Oh, really?"
"If you would like, I can drive out there tonight and bring the contents of the safe to you."
Clete's next visitor interrupted the conversation. And again startled him.
"Christ, where did you come from?" Clete blurted.
First Lieutenant Anthony J. Pelosi, Corps of Engineers, Army of the United States, had come through what a moment before Clete believed to be a solid, paneled wall.
"What we will do, Enrico, is leave for San Pedro y San Pablo very early in the morning," Clete said. He waited for Enrico to nod his understanding, then gave in to his curiosity and went to examine the door.
A masterpiece of fine carpentry-or is it cabinetmaking?-it blended in-visibly with the paneled wall when closed. Only on close examination could Clete find a toe-activated panel that functioned as a doorknob.
"It leads to the kitchen" Tony Pelosi said. "Your uncle sent me up that way."
He was a swarthy, short young man who had two weeks before celebrated his twenty-first birthday. His muscular arms and chest strained the tunic of his pink and green Class "A" uniform.
The insignia of the Eighty-second Airborne Division was sewn on the sleeve of his tunic, and the breast carried silver parachutist's wings and two medals. One was the Silver Star medal, the third-highest award for valor, and the other announced that the wearer had served in the American Theater of Op-erations. It was automatically awarded after ninety days of service. Pelosi's sharply creased pink trousers were bloused around the tops of highly polished parachutist's jump boots.
Tony, Clete thought, is probably the only man in the U.S. Army, Navy, or Marine Corps who has won the Silver Star for service in the American Theater of Operations, which is defined as the continental United States and South America, theoretically far from any shots fired in anger.
"How are you, Tony?" Clete said, turning to him and shaking his hand. "I went looking for you yesterday. You weren't home."
"I was probably standing in line at the Edificio Libertador," Tony said. Ital-ian emotions overwhelmed him. The handshake turned into an embrace. "Jesus, Clete, I'm sorry about your dad."
"Thank you," Clete said.
After the emotional moment passed, Tony, looking a little embarrassed, went to Enrico.
"How are you, Sergeant Major?" he asked.
"Mi Teniente," Enrico said. Visibly torn between saluting an officer and embracing him, he finally did both.