Another man put out his hand. “I am Subinspector General Pedro Nolasco, Major. General Nervo’s deputy.”
The infantry colonel brought up the rear of the line.
“Edmundo Wattersly,” he said, crushing Clete’s hand. “We’ve met, but I rather doubt you’ll remember.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t.”
“At your wedding. And of course during your father’s funeral. Your dad and I were at the academy together, and then again at the Kreigschule. He used to call me his ‘conduit to Berchtesgaden.’ ”
What the hell does that mean?
Clete nodded, then announced, “We have about half an hour until dinner—”
“We didn’t invite ourselves to dinner . . .” Martín interrupted.
“—so may I suggest we get started with whatever this is?” Clete went on.
Martín finished, “. . . but I’m sure we all appreciate your hospitality.”
“Dinner will be at nine, Don Cletus,” Antonio La Vallé said. “I’m afraid it will be simple.”
“I’m sure it will be fine, La Vallé,” Clete said. “And that will be all, thank you. We can make our own drinks.”
“Cletus,” Wattersly said. “You don’t mind me calling you that, do you?”
“Not at all.”
“If you don’t mind, Cletus, may Antonio stay? I’ve always found that useful.”
“Excuse me?” Frade said.
“Your dad and I formed the habit, when we were planning Operation Blue, of having La Vallé and Enrico around. They were our human stenographers, so to speak. Between them, they remember everything, and that way, there’s no stenographer’s pad left lying about, don’t you know, to fall into the wrong hands.”
Clete glanced at La Vallé and then at Enrico, who nodded.
“Please stay, La Vallé,” Clete said, then added, “I would very much like a drink.”
A moment later, La Vallé extended one to him on a small silver tray.
“Gentlemen, if I may?” Martín asked, looked around, and then turned to Frade and began: “The night el Señor von Deitzberg came ashore from U- 405—on September twenty-eighth, three days ago—Nervo, Nolasco, Lauffer, and I met to discuss our options. Among the things decided—since we are agreed on what has to be done—was that we should meet regularly to share information. That first meeting was held yesterday at lunch between Lauffer and Nervo at the Círculo Militar. Lauffer and Nervo concluded that there were two additional people who should be involved, el Coronel Wattersly and yourself.
“I concurred. I got in contact with Edmundo, then I met you when you landed at Jorge Frade today. Let me be frank, Cletus. While el Coronel Wattersly fully agrees that you should be part of this, Inspector General Nervo is more than a little nervous. . . .”
“The question in my mind, Don Cletus,” General Nervo said, “is where do your loyalties lie? Are you an Argentine or a Norteamericano?”
Clete met Nervo’s eyes for a long moment.
What the hell. When in doubt, tell the truth!
“To tell you the truth, which you probably won’t like, General, I’m both. I’m a serving officer of the United States Marine Corps—”
“And the Office of Strategic Services,” Nervo interjected.
“—attached to the Office of Strategic Services. I am also legally an Argentine and the son—”
“Of an Argentine hero who was murdered by the Nazis,” Wattersly said. “And someone who risked his life—for Argentina—during Operation Blue. That should satisfy you, Santiago.”
Nervo grunted, gave Wattersly a dirty look, grunted again, and then said: “Don Cletus warned I probably wouldn’t like his answer. I don’t. But I like it a hell of a lot more than if he had said—as I expected him to—‘Not to worry, I’m an Argentine. Trust me.’ ” He paused. “Okay. Let’s get on with this.”