"Fantastic ass," Maxwell Ashton said, switching to English. "And all mus-cle!"
A waiter appeared, and Ashton ordered beer in Spanish.
"You're not what I expected, frankly," Ashton said. "You don't look old enough to be either a major or a hotshot pilot."
"You're not what I expected, either," Clete said. "Is she the 'party,' as in 'Se¤or Ashton and Party'?"
"You have a problem with that, mi Mayor? "
"I thought maybe you had your team here."
"They're in the transient officers' BOQ in Porto Alegre, unless Colonel Wallace has confirmed his suspicions that three of them are enlisted swine and he has them in his stockade awaiting trial for impersonating officers and gen-tlemen."
"I somehow don't think you're kidding."
"You know el Coronel Wallace?"
"I know who he is. He's my contact at Porto Alegre."
"You're a pilot, right? When you're wearing a uniform, do you carry a rid-ing crop?"
"No," Clete said, chuckling.
"Wallace does. Getting the picture? Regular Army. Very starchy. He made it very clear to me he wishes he'd never heard of the OSS. He can't find any reg-ulation in his book on how to deal with us."
"You told him everybody on your team was an officer?"
"He somehow got that impression, after he told me that the officers would be billeted in a hotel off the base, and the enlisted swine in barracks on the base."
"How many enlisted swine?" Clete asked, chuckling.
"Three. Good guys. One's a German Jew. Seigfried Stein. Buck Sergeant. He's my explosives expert. Tech Sergeant Bill Ferris is our weapons and para-chute guy, and Staff Sergeant Jerry O'Sullivan is the radar operator. Plus, of course, the gorilla. My executive officer. First Lieutenant Madison R. Sawyer the Third. He went to the parachute school at Fort Benning before he came to OSS. At Benning, they tell people that parachutists are tougher than anybody else, and being a Yalie, Sawyer believes it."
Ashton looked at Clete, saw that Clete was smiling, and went on.
"Truth to tell, mi Mayor, you've been wondering what somebody who looks like me is doing with a name like Maxwell Ashton, haven't you?"
"You look more like a Pedro type," Clete said. "Or maybe a Pablo."
"Actually, it's Maxwell Ashton the Third, Captain, Signal Corps, Army of the United States. What's your date of rank, Major?
"Two months ago."
"If I were a betting man-and unfortunately, betting's another of my seri-ous vices-I would lay five to one I outranked you before you got promoted. You got promoted, right, because of that John Wayne-type stunt you pulled on the first submarine-supply ship?"
"I was promoted because I am an absolutely perfect officer," Clete said, chuckling. "They wanted to make me a general, but I am also modest to a fault and declined. Is who ranks who going to be a problem between us?"
"Not unless you start giving me or anybody on my team orders to do some-thing like you and that Army paratrooper did. Heroism is not my strong suit. I want you to understand that."
"Mine either," Clete said.
&nbs
p; "Bullshit," Ashton said. "I got into your file at the National Institutes of Health, and I know all about you. Most of what I read I scares me, frankly."
"Why?"
"So far you've been shot down twice in the Pacific and once here," Ashton said. "And the Germans tried to kill you-and damned near did-in Buenos Aires. And your father was killed. Assassinated. Graham told me. It looks to me like you're a dangerous man to be around. I don't want to be an innocent by-stander."