"I know where to put it," Enrico said. "The money, too, Se¤or Clete?"
"What's that money for?"
"To pay some of the senior officers," Enrico replied, making it clear he thought that should have been self-evident.
"I think we'll leave the money there," Clete said, thinking aloud. "I may even let Se¤ora Carzino-Cormano into the safe. But I want to put Outline Blue someplace else-someplace safe-until I make up my mind what I'm going to do about it, understand?"
Enrico nodded.
Clete laid Outline Blue on the floor and reached for the three large manila envelopes inside the safe. The first two held legal documents, including several deeds.
These were obviously the documents Humberto was concerned about. The records involving the investment of the money Peter von Wachtstein had brought from Germany.
There's no time to look at these now, and even if there was I wouldn't know what I was looking at.
The third envelope contained only another, letter-size envelope. The rear flap was embossed, Schloss Wachtstein, Pomern.
Wachtstein Castle, Pomerania. A year ago, six months ago, when I heard the word castle, I thought of King Arthur, or maybe Frankenstein. It never oc-curred to me that anybody I would ever know would have grown up in a cas-tle... considered it his home. And when I heard "Pomerania," I thought of some ugly snarling mutt sitting drooling on a fat lady's lap.
He remembered Peter trying without success to control his voice and to ig-nore his tear-filled eyes when he read the letter aloud, translating it for him as he did so.
And he remembered his father reading the letter shortly afterward, and then, turning to Peter with tears in his eyes and with great difficulty finding his voice, finally saying, "I can only hope, my friend, that one day my son will have reason to be half as proud of me as you must be of your father."
Well, I'm proud as hell of you, too, Dad. It took balls to sign this Outline Blue thing. You damned well knew your signature was all Castillo would need to convict you of treason and stand you in front of a firing squad. Maybe sign-ing it wasn't smart, but it was the honorable thing to do.
His own eyes watery, he replaced the small envelope in the larger one, tied it, and put it on the floor with everything else. Then he walked to his father's desk, sat down in his father's chair, and started to read Outline Blue.
"Se¤or Clete, the good fathers are waiting for you," Enrico said.
"Damn!" Clete said. He closed Outline Blue and held it out to Enrico. "Wherever you take this, Enrico, put it someplace where I can look at it later."
"S¡, Se¤or."
[THREE]
Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo
Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province
1105 11 April 1943
"May I?" Father Welner asked, holding up a fresh bottle of wine and a corkscrew.
Fathers Denilo and Pordido had just left them, after two glasses of wine each and a fifteen-minute briefing on the requiem mass. It was apparently going to be nearly as elaborate as the service in the Basilica of Our Lady of Pilar; all that was missing was the casket and the Hiisares de Pueyrred¢n.
"Of course," Clete said, and slid his glass across the desk. "I could use an-other sip myself."
"Was that difficult for you?" Welner asked, and then interrupted himself. "This is very nice. It comes from one of your vineyards. Your father was very fond of it."
"One of my vineyards?"
"San Bosco, in Cordoba. It's essentially a varietal cabernet." Welner pulled the cork out, sniffed it, and then poured wine into Clete's glass before filling his own.
"That wasn't difficult," Clete said. "Odd. I'm not a Catholic, and having a Catholic priest seek my approval, of anything, is a little strange."
"Oh, but you are a Catholic," Welner said.
"I'm an Episcopalian, Father," Clete said. "An Anglican, I guess you say down here. A communicant of Trinity Protestant Episcopal Church, Midland, Texas."