"OK. Give me twenty minutes to get out of here. I'll catch a taxi over there-"
"Your Buick is here, Se¤or Clete," Enrico interrupted.
"You had it brought here?" Clete asked, surprised. "Why?"
"It attracts less attention to carry a shotgun in a private car than in a taxi, Se¤or Clete."
"So it does," Clete said, smiling. "It's in the basement?"
"S¡, Se¤or Clete."
"OK. Tony, anytime in the next twenty minutes, go down to the garage in the basement. I'll make an appearance downstairs, and meet you there."
After Tony realized that Enrico was hurt worse than he was willing to admit, he finally persuaded him to take the front passenger seat in the Buick, but only af-ter he argued that using the shotgun from there would be easier than from the back, if using it became necessary.
Clete came to the garage a half hour later, having taken longer to do his manners in the reception than he imagined. The exit from the basement garage let them out behind the house, on Avenida Posadas, and they were thus able to avoid the crowd still on Avenida Alvear.
When he adjusted the rearview mirror, Clete noticed a car, an English Ford, called an "Anglia," pull away from the curb and follow them. When he reached Avenida del Libertador and turned left, the Anglia was still on his tail. There was no question they were being followed.
He considered, and immediately dismissed, the idea that it might be an-other set of German-sent assassins. There hadn't been time to plan something like that, and he didn't think even the Germans would try to kill the son on the same day he buried his father!
But who is trailing me? And why? To keep track of my movements, or to protect me ?
The route to the Avenida Coronel Diaz took them past the residence of the Ambassador of the United States of America to the Argentine Republic. The American flag flew over the four-story mansion, whose grounds took in most of the block.
Primarily to keep Enrico from finding out they were being trailed-God only knows how he would react-Clete leaned across him and pointed out the statue of George Washington in the park across from the Ambassador's resi-dence.
"George Washington, Tony. You ever see that before?"
"Yeah," Tony replied without much interest.
"He had bad teeth," Clete announced.
"What?"
"While I was futzing around Washington, I drove over to Mount Vernon," Clete said. "They've got his false teeth on display. They're wood. Jesus, he probably couldn't eat anything but mush."
"No shit?"
"If they had shown me those wooden choppers when I was
a kid, they wouldn't have any trouble getting me to brush my teeth."
"Between bullshit lectures on how I was supposed to behave 'as a member of the diplomatic community' and that crypto class at Camp A. P. Hill, I didn't have any time in Washington to do anything but piss and brush my teeth," Tony said.
Clete laughed.
"Wooden teeth, Se¤or Clete?" Enrico asked in disbelief.
"Wooden teeth, Enrico," Clete said.
The Anglia stayed with them until they turned into the drive of the house on Avenida Coronel Diaz, when it drove slightly past the house and pulled to the curb.
I will have to keep in mind that Enrico didn't spot that car. He's good, but he's not perfect.
[TWO]
1728 Avenida Coronel Diaz