Sawyer pointed to the left.
“There’s an apartment there with barred windows and lockable doors. Enrico put her in there. Her husband and son are with her, and one of our guys is sitting in the foyer outside. Stein’s setting up the SIGABA and the Collins.”
“Well, as soon as I have a glass of wine, I’ll have a look at both,” Frade said.
Dorotea shook her head in resignation.
Clete walked through the door that Sawyer had indicated and found himself in a comfortable room, two walls of which were lined with books, one half of a third wall with oil paintings and framed photographs and half with a bar, complete with stools. The fourth wall held French doors that opened onto a rear patio and provided a panoramic view of the Andes.
Clete went behind the bar and looked through the bottles of wine in a rack on the wall, finally pulling out a Don Guillermo Cabernet Sauvignon. He took a quick look at the label and then a longer look.
“My God!” he said. “This says one of 2,505, 1917. Nineteen seventeen?”
“I think it gets better with age, like Kentucky bourbon,” Sawyer said.
“Either that or we have a bottle of twenty-six-year-old vinegar,” Clete said, and fed the bottle to a huge and ornate cork-pulling device mounted on the wall. He poured some in a glass and sipped.
“Mother Superior and the nuns will be here any minute,” Dorotea said.
“So you keep saying,” Clete replied. “Well, don’t worry. I won’t give her any of this twenty-six-year-old vinegar.”
He poured his glass half full and took a healthy swallow.
“Terrible, absolutely terrible,” he said. “I don’t think you’d like this at all, Polo.”
“Why don’t you let me decide for myself?”
“Because anyone who has volunteered to jump out of a perfectly functioning airplane is obviously incapable of making wise decisions.”
Sawyer snatched the bottle from him and poured wine into a glass.
“Nectar of the gods,” Sawyer pronounced a moment later.
Frade found more glasses under the bar and poured wine for Delgano and Rodríguez.
“And there’s a whole wall of it,” Frade said, pointing at the wine rack. “I’m starting to like this place.”
And then his eyes fell on a silver-framed photograph on a table.
He walked quickly to the table and picked it up.
“What, honey?” Dorotea asked.
“My parents’ wedding picture,” he said softly.
He extended it to her.
“Saint Louis Cathedral, Jackson Square, New Orleans,” Frade said.
Dorotea examined it and then handed it to Sawyer. It showed the bride, in a long-trained gown, and the groom and the other males in the rather large wedding party in formal morning clothes, standing in front of an altar.
“Is that Perón?” Sawyer asked.
“That’s Ol’ Juan Domingo,” Frade said. “The fat Irishman is the cardinal archbishop. Also present are my grandfather, whose uncontrollable joy is evident on his face. And my Uncle Jim and my Aunt Martha, who raised me.” He turned to Enrico. “You were there, too, right?”
“Sí, Don Cletus.”
“How come you’re not in the picture?”